


finding a way back home

by savorvrymoment



Series: finding a way [1]
Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Discussion of Mercy Killing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Major Character Injury, Past Abuse, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25584910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savorvrymoment/pseuds/savorvrymoment
Summary: Because all fey are brothers, even the lost ones.
Relationships: The Weeping Monk | Lancelot/The Green Knight | Gawain
Series: finding a way [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024021
Comments: 152
Kudos: 593





	1. Part 1

Gawain finds them by sheer dumb luck.

He’s heading North away from the trashed encampment, unsure how he’s even alive, much less uninjured and able to walk on his own two feet. He’d grabbed what he could, took an abandoned horse, a big bay, and left the place at sunrise. 

He hears the voices as the sun is setting.

“No, I won’t!” A child’s voice. Loud and petulant. Squirrel, it’s definitely Squirrel—Gawain recognizes it immediately. “I’m not leaving without you. You’re coming too!”

Another voice answers him, but it’s low and hoarse. Gawain doesn’t understand the words, and so he spurs his horse on, careful of the underbrush but still trying to make ground.

Then, suddenly, “Silence, child, _silence_!”

It’s a quiet hiss, then rustling and a pained grunt, and then…

Gawain meets the Ashman’s startled gaze.

The fey is struggling to stand, leaning up against the trunk of a large Oak, obviously wounded—the ash tracks under his eyes are barely visible beneath the heavy bruising. Yet he has Squirrel pushed behind his hip with one hand and a dagger brandished in the other, ready to fight whoever may be coming for him… for _them_. A body-shield between the expected danger and the child.

It’s such a change in character that it brings Gawain up short, and he just sits atop his horse staring in silence for a long second, then two, until Squirrel suddenly bounds out from behind the Ashman. “Gawain!” the boy squeals, and the Ashman makes a weak grab but ultimately lets him go. His deep blue eyes scan the trees behind Gawain for danger even as he sinks back down to the forest floor with a pitiful moan.

Gawain doesn’t trust him, but he doesn’t seem like much of a threat. Something has clearly happened, and gods, _Squirrel is still alive_. He swings down from his horse and gathers the boy up in a tight hug. “Oh, it is so good to see you,” he says, squeezing until the boy starts to squirm. He releases him with a laugh, but his good humor dries up as soon as his gaze drifts back to the Ashman. The fey’s eyes are closed, lips downturned in a grimace of pain. Gawain looks back to Squirrel and asks, “What’s happened? You managed to escape?”

“Yes! We fought off the guards and escaped!” Squirrel enthuses, before relenting, “Well, it was Lancelot mostly, but I helped.”

“Lancelot,” Gawain murmurs, looking past Squirrel to the Ashman sprawled out against the tree. His eyes have slipped open again, half-lidded, watching the boy with a helpless affection Gawain has come to know of recent. It’s the same look he’s seen on the faces of so many of his brothers and sisters who’ve known the boy. Squirrel just seems to have that effect, seems to inspire love and courage without even trying, seems to help others be their best selves only by existing.

And Gawain supposes he should have realized from the start—if anyone could help the lost fey soldier, it would be this boy.

Gawain is careful as he approaches. The Ashman still has his dagger clutched in his hand, and he has that look about him Gawain’s seen before on many a battlefield. Too pale, his eyes not quite focused, sweat beading on his forehead even though the setting sun is leaving the evening cool and breezy. Even if they _hadn’t_ been sworn enemies just days ago, Gawain would still be cautious. A soldier like this can easily lash out in self-defense, too sick to realize they’re attacking a friend.

Squirrel has no such qualms, though, and bounds back over to the Ashman’s side. Gawain tenses, but the Ashman just looks at Squirrel with tired eyes, blinking sluggishly. Then, in that low hoarse voice Gawain remembers, the Ashman says, “Percival, go with him. That is your Green Knight, is it not? Go…”

“No!” Squirrel interrupts, fists clutching at his cloak and pulling. “No, you have to come too. You—," he turns to look at Gawain, “you have to help him. He’s hurt, but you can help him, right?”

Gawain sighs, kneeling in the dirt before the Ashman. “What happened?”

The Ashman meets his eyes, before he shakes his head once. “You should take the boy, leave me here. Go, before you’re set upon by Paladins.”

And there’s a lot Gawain thinks about saying. _We may have a chance to breathe_ , he thinks. _The royal encampment was littered with dead Paladins and royal guards alike_ , he thinks. _I’m almost positive I saw Father Carden's head lying in the dirt_ , he thinks. But at the same time, it all seems like a fever dream. Nothing of the past 24 hours makes sense. The last thing he remembers before waking in that tent is being at the mercy of the torturer’s blade. And now he is whole and hardy…

So Gawain just presses, “I have seen you fight, Ashman. I know what you’re capable of. How did this happen to you?”

“There were too many of them,” he answers. “And they were the Trinity Guard. From Rome. Not Red Paladins. They almost took me down.”

“But I distracted them,” Squirrel says proudly, hand on the Ashman’s shoulder. “I didn’t let them.”

“Yes, you were—were very brave,” the Ashman says, reaching over for Squirrel. “But it’s time to go with him now. Leave me here. I’ll be fine.”

While he’s speaking to Squirrel, his eyes are locked on Gawain. They’re still half-lidded, his exhaustion and pain etched into his expression, but the way his gaze drops meaningfully to his dagger then back to Gawain gets his point across crystal clear. Squirrel must not see it, or at least not understand the nuances, though he does continue his protests on leaving without the Ashman.

Gawain takes the blade, already prepared for the Ashman to fight him for it, and once he’s wrestled it away, he says, quiet, “If it comes to that, I’ll do it myself. And I’ll do it quick and clean, so you don’t linger. But I don’t think you’re there yet.”

The Ashman stares with that silent, pensive look even as Squirrel begins loudly objecting. The child is not so naïve as to not understand what Gawain said, and while Gawain doesn’t understand it, Squirrel seems to have grown a strange attachment. The Ashman reaches a hand out for the child, though, silencing him without a word, and says, “I rode as long as I could. But we’re still too close, and the Paladins _will_ follow. They’ll not allow their demon off the leash so easy…”

“And you’ll not continue to parrot their words in front of me,” Gawain says, though it holds no real heat. 

“Hmm.” The Ashman’s lips quirk up into a half-grin. “Though perhaps some of what they say _is_ true. You seem mad, as though you have no good sense. Take the boy and leave before we’re set upon here.”

“Oh, and he thinks he’s clever,” Gawain says, mirroring the other fey’s half-smile. He reaches out, still cautious, and takes the Ashman’s jaw in his hand. Tilts his head to the side so he can better see in the dimming light of dusk, and finds blood in his hairline and along his temple. Looks like a headwound from blunt trauma—a bad one at that—and the Ashman winces when Gawain eases his fingers up over the swelling.

“Take the boy…”

Gawain ignores him and interrupts, “Do you feel ill? Headache? Dizzy and nauseous?”

The Ashman stays silent for a long moment before he hums an affirmative. Then, “Have you forgotten who I am, Knight? What I’ve done? You should _want_ to take that dagger and slit my throat.”

Squirrel whines and throws himself against the Ashman, arms around his neck, hugging him tight. The Ashman grimaces but raises an arm to hold the boy against himself all the same. It’s such a simple gesture, affection and comfort during hard times, but the fact that it’s coming from this killer changes it somehow. “And have you forgotten what I said?” Gawain says. “I meant it. All fey are brothers, even the lost ones. And I’m not in the habit of abandoning my own.”

The Ashman sighs but doesn’t offer anything further. His blue eyes drift closed.

“Ok,” Gawain decides. Then, “He called you Lancelot,” he gestures at Squirrel, “is that your name?”

“Mmm,” the Ashman murmurs. “It is what my mother called me—a long time ago.”

“An old name,” Gawain notes.

“The Ashfolk are an old people,” Lancelot answers.

“Indeed,” Gawain says. Then, “I’m called Gawain.”

“I know,” Lancelot says.

There’s silence, then. Lancelot seems content to rest, and Squirrel stands at his side, staring at him with unconcealed worry. The boy has a black eye, but otherwise he seems unharmed. Gawain reaches for him, asking, “You’re alright? Those bastards didn’t hurt you, did they?”

“I’m fine,” Squirrel says. “We escaped before the man without eyes got me.”

Gawain breathes a sigh of relief, pats Lancelot on the shoulder in silent thanks. “Good, that’s good.”

He’s a bit startled when Lancelot covers his hand with his own, squeezing lightly in recognition. The other fey’s hand is worn with sword and bow calluses like Gawain’s own. Oddly familiar that way. 

“Stay here. Both of you,” he says, gesturing to Lancelot and Squirrel both. “I passed a stream on the way here. I’ll go back, fill the waterskins. Hopefully find some dinner on the way back.”

“I’ll come with you!” Squirrel enthuses, leaping to his feet.

Gawain frowns. “No, stay here with Lancelot.”

“Let the boy go. It’s been very boring for him today, I’m sure,” Lancelot says, crooked grin on his face. “I’m afraid I’m not good company as of present.”

Gawain wants to argue, but he allows, “Alright. Just stay where you are. We’ll be back as quickly as possible.”

“Do not worry,” Lancelot answers. “I’m not going anywhere any time soon.”

And so Gawain gathers up the few things they have, the waterskins and the sword and bow he took from the royal encampment, then lifts Squirrel up onto the bay’s saddle. It’s only then he realizes he’s leaving Lancelot alone with the dagger he’d been so intent on using just ten minutes earlier, and he frowns, looking back at where the other fey is resting. 

He’s halfway to the tree, intent on taking the weapon away, when he stops. He doesn’t want to think about Squirrel’s reaction should they come back and find Lancelot has driven the dagger into his own heart—but then it will be no better if they come back and find he has been dragged off by Red Paladins. The dagger is the only weapon Lancelot has.

So Gawain settles for stomping up to the Ashman and leaning down to growl into his face. “If I come back to find that dagger lodged in your chest, I will find a way to raise you from the Green just so that I may carve those weeping eyes out of your skull.”

Lancelot’s eyebrows rise for a moment, before his features settle back into their usual passive expression. Though when he speaks, he’s clearly angry. “Why do you think I haven’t ended this misery already?” he hisses, quiet. “The child does not need to see another dead body on top of all else he has suffered.”

It’s not the reply Gawain was expecting, and he’s briefly taken aback. But he nods all the same, backing away and joining Squirrel on the horse. “We’ll be back soon,” he promises one last time.

“And I’ll be here,” the Ashman replies.

~*~

They fill up five waterskins in the creek—all the skins Gawain could find between their two horses’ saddlebags—and he manages to hunt down a few rabbits near the creekbed. He looks idly at the greenery as they ride back toward Lancelot’s makeshift camp, trying to find anything with healing properties or that may offer some pain relief, but dusk is quickly settling into night. It’s difficult to see any minute differences in the dark, and Gawain is no healer.

Lancelot is lying very still when they return, and Gawain’s heart ends up in his throat for a brief moment. But then Lancelot jerks awake at the sound of Gawain dismounting, one hand reaching blindly for his dagger. There’s panic and confusion in his eyes, though as quickly as he’d startled, he calms, running a shaky hand over his face.

“Easy, Brother,” Gawain says, reaching back to pull Squirrel down as well. Squirrel runs over to Lancelot to give him a hug, and Gawain’s still not sure how he feels about the boy’s obvious attachment to this killer, but they have more pressing issues. “We have water,” he tells Lancelot. “And dinner.”

“Only rabbit,” Squirrel says with a frown. “We looked for a deer, but we couldn’t find one.”

“Better than berries,” Lancelot says with a shrug, and Squirrel laughs, nodding.

“I’ll start a fire, get these cooked,” Gawain says. Then, handing one of the waterskins to Squirrel, “Give this to him—,” he nods to Lancelot, “—he needs to be drinking.”

Of course, Lancelot begins arguing. “You both take what you need. I’ll have whatever’s left.”

And Gawain can’t figure him out—one moment he’s passive, then next he’s contradictory. The whole thing leaves Gawain feeling as though he’s on unsteady ground. Gawain had had the Weeping Monk pinned down, knew his moves and motivations and strategies. But the fey in front of him is unfamiliar. This may be the Weeping Monk, but this is not the same fey he’d spoken with just days earlier.

Lancelot continues to refuse the water for a bit, his expression pinched and unhappy, but Squirrel has the waterskin and is shoving it in his face, practically upending it into his nose. Lancelot’s forced to take it from the boy or be doused in water, and so he does, drinks the entire thing while Gawain gets the fire started and skins the rabbits. It makes Gawain wonder how much he’s been drinking, and how long ago it’s been since he allowed himself water.

“There’s more here,” Gawain murmurs as the meat is cooking over the flame. Lancelot has closed his eyes, and Gawain doesn’t want to wake him if he’s fallen asleep once again, but the other fey tilts his head and looks over with tired eyes, still awake. Gawain repeats, “There’s plenty of water, and we can go back to the creek first thing in the morning for more. As long as it’s settling with your stomach—there’s plenty for you to drink…”

There’s a long silence, Lancelot’s eyes glittering in the firelight, before he answers, “Perhaps later.”

Gawain nods, looking away. He prods at the cooking rabbits, then glances over to Squirrel. The boy is busy fighting invisible enemies nearby, dodging around the trees, slashing and parrying with a long stick. He’s paying the two adults no mind, so Gawain is sure to keep his voice quiet when he speaks. “You’re not what I expected, Ashman.”

Lancelot makes a noise that may be a laugh though it’s strange, as though he doesn’t know how. “Neither are _you_ what _I_ expected, Knight,” he says. “I do not understand your kindness, but please do not think that I’m ungrateful.”

Gawain nods. He glances at Squirrel again, but the boy still doesn’t seem to be listening. He turns back to Lancelot and asks, “Your injuries—is it just your head?”

Lancelot grunts, shakes his head once. “There is something wounded inside me. My stomach is—it is no more than I deserve, but it’s what is keeping me here. Keeping me from getting back on the horse.”

Gawain nods, standing and going to him. “Let me see.”

“What?” Lancelot asks, frowning.

“Let me see,” Gawain repeats, kneeling in front of him. 

The other fey’s scabbard and surcoat had already been removed when Gawain found him, leaving him in only his black breeches, boots, and tunic. His beloved grey cloak is draped over his lap, tucked around him like a blanket. When Gawain reaches for his tunic, Lancelot balks.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Gawain assures, pulling his hands away and raising them in surrender. “Just want to look for bruising.”

Lancelot nods, then takes the hem of his tunic and pulls it up slow, reluctant. Even in the low light of the fire, Gawain can see that his stomach is painted with large black and purple splotches. The laces of his trousers are tied loosely, keeping the waist from pressing against the swelling and contusions.

“Gods,” Gawain murmurs. He’s tempted to touch, palpate the injury, though he’s seen this before. He’s been through enough battles to know what this means. There is bleeding inside his body—his belly will feel hard and bloated under Gawain’s hands, and it will hurt Lancelot for Gawain to touch him. So he refrains, just takes the tunic from Lancelot’s hands and pulls it back down.

“I can smell blood when I pass water,” Lancelot says. “Which is why you should just take the boy, leave me. The chances I’m going to survive this are…”

But Gawain gets hung up on, “You can _smell_ blood in your urine?”

A quirk of the lips, then, “Ashfolk. My eyesight may not be what yours is, but…” He taps his nose with an index finger, then taps at an ear. “I’ll have your scent and hear you coming before you ever know I’m there.”

And suddenly, everything that’s happened in the past several years makes so much more sense. He’s looking at a Paladin tracker, he realizes. Perhaps _the_ Paladin tracker. The reason they always seemed to be two steps behind the Church. His blood boils for a half-second, but then Lancelot starts speaking again.

“I don’t think they realized,” he says, rambling, eyes trained on Squirrel playing in the distance. “I think Father thought I was just some sort of fey finder, not… not _sense_. And you learn so much when you overhear people speaking in supposed privacy, or when you can smell things on them—these men who took vows at my side stinking of wine and women.”

Gawain doesn’t know what to say to that, decides to just ask the question that’s on his mind. “Do you heal quickly? I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with the gifts of your people.”

“The lashmarks from the whip always heal fast and clean,” Lancelot says with a shrug. “But I’ve never been bested like this. I—I do not know.”

Gawain nods. He pats the other fey on the shoulder, and perhaps it’s his own confusion, or perhaps it’s the pain and exhaustion in the Ashman’s eyes, but the words fall from his mouth unbidden. “What happened to you?”

“What happened to _you_?” Lancelot counters, frowning. “Last I saw you, you were well on your way to your death.”

“I don’t know. Truthfully,” Gawain says. Then, because he supposes if he wants to build any sort of trust here, any sort of a civil relationship, he should be as honest as possible, “The last thing I remember is falling asleep in that chair, where I was tied. But then I woke up on the ground of an abandoned encampment—it looked like it a royal encampment, possibly Uther’s. I’m not sure what had happened there—it may have been attacked, there were dead bodies strewn about—but I didn’t exactly linger to ask questions.”

“Best not to take issue,” Lancelot agrees, half-grin finding his lips again. “But you awoke like this? Hale and whole?”

Gawain nods. “I don’t understand it either, Brother.”

“Perhaps the Green answers your prayers,” Lancelot says. “While my God only turns away.”

Gawain sighs, repeats, “Brother, what happened to you?”

A long silence, before Lancelot answers, “I was the sword of light. But I wasn’t strong enough.”

“You’re parroting them again,” Gawain says, sure of at least that much.

Lancelot takes a deep breath, exhales and looks away. “They took me when I was young. Spared me,” he relents.

“And used your gifts to further their own war,” Gawain says.

“And allowed me a chance at redemption,” Lancelot corrects. “Even though I am damned by birth.”

“You echo them,” Gawain repeats, frustrated. “That is what they all say, that we are damned by the mere sin of our existence. But you know that is a lie. You wouldn’t have ridden out into these woods with the boy if you truly believed even one word of it.”

Lancelot doesn’t reply, just stares back with that stoic mask of indifference. Gawain has the sudden urge to reach out and shake him until he regains his senses, but instead he gestures to Squirrel. The boy’s stopped playing and is very pointedly _not_ watching them. Gawain almost laughs—subtlety’s not really Squirrel’s strong suit.

“That boy you risked your life to save,” Gawain says. “Look me in the eye and tell me you believe he is a demon. Tell me he is damned. Tell me you believe that.”

Silence lingers for a long moment, just the crackle of the fire behind them. Finally, Lancelot says, “Percival is listening.”

“I know,” Gawain replies.

Lancelot huffs an exasperated sigh, then grimaces in pain. “I knew what I was doing, and what I was risking,” he says eventually. “I wouldn’t have left with the boy had I thought him unworthy of the sacrifice.”

It’s not the explicit denial of damnation Gawain was looking for, but it’s something. It’s a good something. So Gawain nods, patting the other fey on the knee before he stands. He’s delayed too long speaking, and the rabbits are beginning to smell… well-cooked.

“Did you burn them?” Squirrel asks, bounding over as Gawain pulls the meat off the fire.

“No, I just got them crispy,” Gawain quips. Squirrel scowls, but Lancelot chuckles from behind him.

He gets Squirrel set up first—one rabbit, one waterskin, a bedroll readied for sleep—then gets Lancelot a rabbit and a second waterskin. Lancelot thanks him quietly before beginning to pick the meat off the bone, eating slow but eating nonetheless. Gawain gives a silent prayer of thanks for that—as long as the other fey is still eating and drinking, then there’s still hope.

“Eat and drink and rest tonight, Brother,” Gawain tells him. “We can speak more in the morning. Devise a plan of attack, so to speak.”

Lancelot nods, weeping eyes already half-lidded with exhaustion.

~*~

Gawain wakes in the middle of the night to strange noises—rustling and blowing and whimpering. 

He startles up, reaching for his sword as he takes in his surroundings. The campfire has long since burnt out, only a few embers glowing orange. Squirrel is where he should be, namely in his bedroll, though he’s awake as well, sitting up and looking across to Lancelot. The other fey is still asleep, though he is quivering and kicking out, sending the scattered leaves under his boots skittering in the dirt. He’s breathing heavily as well, the occasional whine and cry slipping through clenched teeth, and it’s difficult to tell with only the moonlight, but Gawain thinks there may be salty tears mixed with the ashen ones streaking down his cheeks.

A nightmare, Gawain realizes, and he sighs, trying to choose the safest way to wake him. Lancelot still has the dagger at his hip, will probably lash out as soon as he starts to wake. Perhaps if Gawain just calls his name…

Except Squirrel is already jumping up from his bedroll and scurrying over. Gawain cries out, “Squirrel, no, _don’t_ …!” But the boy doesn’t listen. Brief visions flash before Gawain’s eyes—Lancelot striking out in murderous terror, driving the dagger between small ribs or snapping a tiny neck. The panic is so sharp and sudden he thinks he may be ill.

But when Squirrel wraps his arms around Lancelot’s shoulders, quietly murmuring _‘it’s okay, it’s okay’_ , the Ashman doesn’t wake violent. He startles, yes, and his hand reaches for the dagger at his side, but it’s an aborted movement. 

Gawain watches in silence as Lancelot pulls Squirrel close, hiding his face in the crook of the boy’s neck. He makes no noise, but the way his shoulders shake is clue enough that he’s crying. Squirrel pets at his tangled, dirty hair and whispers nonsense _—“it’s ok, we got away, you had a bad dream”—_ and Gawain looks on all the while. 

It’s too surreal. He wonders if he in fact _has_ died. Perhaps he’s in some other land, under some spell, where things are not what they once were.

Several long moments pass, but eventually Gawain gathers himself enough to clear his throat and say, “We’re still safe here, Brother. It was only a night terror.”

Lancelot straightens at that, gently pushing Squirrel away. He takes a deep breath, scrubs his hands over his face, then says, “I’m sorry I woke you both.”

Gawain just shakes his head.

It’s too dark out to see clearly, too dark to see red-rimmed eyes or wet cheeks. Gawain doesn’t know whether he should still be worried, so he continues to sit and watch. Watches Lancelot send Squirrel back to lie down, kind but firm with the instruction. Watches Lancelot pick up the waterskin he’d discarded after dinner, taking a few long pulls before wetting his hands and splashing his face. 

Watches Lancelot pull himself back together.

Finally, the other fey sinks back against the tree, once again tucking his cloak around himself like a blanket. Gawain sighs, unsure why he cares at all, and murmurs, “I’m here, Brother. You can wake me if you’re in need.”

Lancelot doesn’t reply.


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, wow, wow, guys. I am absolutely blown away by the response to the first part, so many kind comments, thank you so much! I figured I'd just be writing a self-indulgent fic in a new fandom for a rare-pair, figured I'd get a few kudos and nothing else, but I'm so glad other people are enjoying this as well!
> 
> I have an outline of where this is going, but as usual I'm being a little verbose. I'm thinking 6 parts as of right now, but it might end up being longer. I'll definitely try to get another part or two up this month. 
> 
> Thank you guys again for the response, you're awesome. <3

A day passes, then a night, and then another half-day.

Gawain waits for anything to change, for Lancelot to either improve or fade. Neither happens—he clings onto his life with a stubborn persistence, sleeping mostly, waking only occasionally when Gawain rouses him with food and water, or when the urge to relieve himself drags him up to the nearby trees. 

Gawain asks him once, after the Ashman returns from emptying his bladder, if he can still smell blood. He doesn't mean to pry or intrude—Lancelot seems more concerned with his privacy than the average fey, but Gawain supposes he was raised with strange man-blood customs. It’s impossible to tell if the other fey is getting any better at all, though. He seems to be simply stagnating.

And as Gawain feared, Lancelot nods silently in answer to his question.

They’re sitting ducks where they are. The longer they stay, the higher the odds a scout or spy will wander across them and report back. Not to mention that Lancelot has stopped and made camp in a frankly horrible location. And Gawain knows it probably wasn’t the other’s intention—he’s been Gawain’s enemy for too long for Gawain to think he’s dumb or that he doesn’t understand logistics. He most likely just fell from his horse in this spot and had to make do. But that doesn’t change the fact that they’re too far from the stream for it to be considered convenient, or that the grass is spotty and dead, not sustainable for two horses to graze on, or that there are no edible berries or greens nearby.

They have to move, it’s not an option. Of course when Gawain says as much, Lancelot begins arguing, or at least insisting that Gawain take Squirrel and leave him behind. And the whole argument is becoming tiresome, to say the least. All it does is leave Gawain irritated and Squirrel upset, and perhaps Gawain has lost what little bit of compassion he had left, or perhaps he’s just weary. Either way, he finds his hand fisted in the front of that black tunic, yanking the Ashman to his feet.

Lancelot grunts in pain, almost falling into Gawain before he manages to set his feet into the ground underneath himself and hold his own weight. There’s a wide-eyed expression of shock on his face for a half-second, but then he manages to school his features back into that uncaring mask, the one that says _‘I feel nothing, not pain nor happiness and certainly not fear.’_ Gawain is coming to loathe that look, especially since he’s seen it break at least a handful of times now, just in the past 24-hours.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, ducking down and then looping one of Lancelot’s arms over his shoulders. He braces himself, pulling the other fey towards him, ready to take the other’s weight, and orders, “Get on the horse.”

“Have you gone mad?” Lancelot snaps.

“No. We need to at least move closer to the stream,” Gawain answers. “I’m going to put you on your horse, and I’ll ride behind you. He’s a big beast, he can take both of our weights, and I can take your weight if you fall ill…”

“Percival,” Lancelot interrupts.

“I’ll put him on the bay, tie the reins to your horse. We’ll go slow, and Squirrel can hold onto the pommel. He’ll be fine,” Gawain assures.

Lancelot is silent for a long time, long enough that Gawain is sure he’s going to continue to argue. But then, he says, “His name is Goliath.”

“What?”

“The gelding, _my_ gelding,” Lancelot clarifies. “His name is Goliath.”

“Oh,” Gawain says. “Ok, then, we’re getting you on Goliath.”

It’s a strained hobble to get over to where Goliath is tied, and then it’s an even more ridiculous fight to get Lancelot lifted up into the saddle. They manage, though, even if it’s clumsy and uncoordinated. Lancelot gets his foot in the stirrup, and Gawain boosts him the rest of the way by shoving his ass and thighs into place. By the time Lancelot’s settled, he’s looking distinctly green, and Gawain’s not really surprised when he leans over the horse’s shoulder and wretches. Gawain stays until the Ashman is finished, a hand on his knee and a hand on his forearm, firm, keeping him from listing to the side. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, once Lancelot has straightened—or rather slumped over the horse’s neck, fingers tangled in his black mane.

“I’m fine,” Lancelot answers, not meeting Gawain’s gaze. And even though he’s very clearly _not_ fine, they need to start moving. Gawain wants to get as far as they can before nightfall. So he gives Lancelot’s knee one final pat, then turns back to Squirrel.

The boy’s watching him with an unconcealed look of disbelief. Gawain doesn’t know why—whether it’s Lancelot’s condition or their sad display getting him on the horse. He just raises his brows at Squirrel and beckons the boy over. Getting him up and settled on the bay is infinitely easier, and Gawain breathes a sigh of relief at that.

He ties the bay’s reins to the back of Goliath’s saddle, then takes a last look around the camp, ensures everything has been gathered up and stowed away. Satisfied, he swings up behind Lancelot, careful not to jostle the other fey too badly. He loops an arm around Lancelot’s waist, a silent offer of support, but Lancelot grunts and bats at his hand. “Don’t,” Lancelot says. “Too much, it hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” Gawain murmurs, adjusting his grip, circling his arm higher around the other’s torso. He ends up with the Ashman’s back clutched tight to his chest, warm and solid. From so close, he can smell the stale sweat clinging to the other’s skin, the mud and blood from battle on his clothes. 

If Gawain can just get them close to the stream before nightfall, he’ll be happy. At least that way, they’ll be able to bathe.

“Alright, let’s go,” he announces. He checks back on Squirrel one last time, tells him, “Hold on tight.” 

And then he starts his way Northeast, up toward the creek.

~*~

He makes it to the water, then continues North till dusk. 

Lancelot withers exponentially in just the handful of hours they ride. Gawain resorts to holding up with both arms wrapped around his chest, relieved that the Ashman’s big black horse requires little to no handling—he plods along careful and obedient, almost as though he understands their situation.

Gawain eventually stops at a small clearing just at the edge of the water. It’s a perfect spot—easy access to the creek, grass for the horses, a couple bushes of wild-growing berries nearby. Plus a few big trees for coverage, shadowing the immediate area from view. He pulls a half-unconscious Lancelot from the horse, lying him out against one of the trees, before getting settled.

Between he and Squirrel, they manage to get the horses watered and tied, a small fire built, and a meager dinner of berries collected, all before nightfall. 

He tries to wake Lancelot to eat and drink—and the other fey does crack his eyes open, dazed and hazy—but he won’t take the water and berries Gawain tries to give him. Gawain manages to get some water down him by force, thumb between his lips and teeth, pouring slow into his open mouth and waiting for him to swallow on reflex. Though when he raises a berry anywhere near Lancelot’s face, the other fey gags and flinches away.

It takes Gawain longer than he’d like to admit to realize what's wrong. That it’s the smell affecting the Ashman, far more pungent to his enhanced senses than it would be to any other, obviously turning his stomach. He stops trying to push the berries to Lancelot’s lips after that, though the fact that the other fey is refusing to eat—and not drinking on his own—sits like a stone in Gawain’s gut.

Things have changed, and not for the better.

Squirrel goes over after he eats, tries to talk to Lancelot, pulls on the cloak Gawain’s once again draped over the Ashman, wraps his little arms around the Ashman’s neck with a heartbreaking look of worry. Lancelot doesn’t react, at least not beyond tipping his head toward the boy and looking, responding reflexively to the noise and touch. It’s difficult to watch, so after a few minutes Gawain speaks up, “Leave him alone. He’s trying to rest.”

And Squirrel turns back, looks Gawain straight in the eye, and asks, “Is he going to die?”

 _It seems like it_ , Gawain thinks. _Moving him was a bad idea, but I didn’t have a choice_ , he thinks. “I don’t know,” he answers.

Squirrel frowns at him, clearly dubious, before going back to petting Lancelot’s mess of sweaty hair. 

~*~

It’s deep into the night when Lancelot’s eyes open with some amount of clarity.

Gawain’s been awake since he first lied down, preoccupied with listening to the Ashman’s slow ragged breathing, when the noise suddenly changes. Goes quicker and quieter. Gawain sits up in his bedroll, looking across to where the other fey is staring into the dying fire, eyes shining in the dim light. After several long silent moments, Gawain goes over to him.

Squirrel thankfully doesn’t wake.

“Brother,” Gawain murmurs, and Lancelot turns his head, blinks sluggishly. “How are you feeling?”

“I am fine,” Lancelot lies. It’s so clearly a trained response, it’s heartbreaking—yet in the dark of night, looking at death looming on the other fey’s face, it’s almost funny. A laugh or cry situation.

Perhaps the past few days have been too much for Gawain. Or perhaps the past few years have been too much. Perhaps he’s going mad. It would explain a lot, like the fact that he’s dragged an executioner along to a new campsite, made him comfortable and forced water down his throat. Hysteria is clearly blinding him.

His chest hurts.

“Water?” Gawain tries, reaching for Lancelot’s waterskin and handing to him, but Lancelot grimaces and shakes his head.

“I won’t keep it down,” he replies, and so Gawain leaves it be, just sits on the ground next to the other fey.

“I’m sorry,” Gawain says. And then, even though he doesn’t want to, even though the words make him sick, “Tell me. If you think it’s your time, tell me. We’ll go now, while Squirrel’s asleep—I’ll take you deeper into the woods, and I’ll make it quick.”

Lancelot’s silent at first, just staring, before he slowly looks away. He’s so quiet when he speaks that Gawain barely hears him. “I’m frightened.”

Gawain shakes his head. “Don’t be. I’ll put my sword between your ribs, pierce your heart, and then you’ll draw your last breath. I won’t let you linger or suffer.”

Lancelot scowls. “I do not fear the blade.”

“Then… you fear death itself?” Gawain asks.

“I fear the fire,” Lancelot says. “I fear my own damnation. I know I’m a coward, but I don't want to burn.”

Gawain closes his eyes. He’s too tired to be angry. “Brother, you are not damned. And there is no fire,” he says, quiet. “You are fey—your body will go to the ground, and your soul will go the Green.”

Lancelot closes his eyes, then leans his head back against the tree with an audible _thunk_. “Perhaps I’ll pass in my sleep,” he mumbles.

And Gawain has no clue how to reply to that, so he just gives the other fey a reassuring pat on the knee. He stays by Lancelot’s side until the other falls asleep, listens as his breathing once again goes hard and jagged.

He eventually goes back to his own bedroll and tries to sleep himself, though he manages only a few hours.

~*~

He finds the yarrow the next morning.

It’s growing wild not far from camp, little yellow flowers showing against the foliage like a beacon. Gawain doesn’t know much about herbal treatments, but yarrow is something used so often for wound care, for the pain and bleeding, that most all soldiers know it. He gathers up all that he can, then heads back to camp.

Lancelot is where Gawain left him, unconscious and slumped against his tree. Gawain’s half-expecting the other fey to be dead—just like he’d awoken that morning expecting to find him still and cold. But when Gawain checks, he finds a quick but steady pulse, finds hot breath against his hand. He repeats his ritual with the water—shoving his finger into the corner of Lancelot’s mouth, pouring slow so that there’s no choking—but he forgoes trying any food. He doesn’t want to get the Ashman agitated before getting the yarrow in him.

He crushes a few of the flowers between two rocks, seeds and stems and all, then wets it into a gummy paste. And then, with a silent prayer, he opens Lancelot’s mouth again and tries to press the yarrow into the corner with his thumb. 

Lancelot starts fighting him immediately, trying to push Gawain away with his hands and clumsily kicking with his feet. He shakes his head violently, gagging all the while—and Gawain can sympathize, even he can smell the thick peppery scent of the yarrow without the Ashman’s senses. But Gawain’s getting this in Lancelot, he doesn’t care what he has to do…

He doesn’t care that the other fey bites him, doesn’t care that the other fey spits up bile on him. Lancelot helped get Squirrel to safety, and so Gawain owes this to him. He’ll do whatever he can to keep Lancelot alive.

He eventually gets the wad of herbs tucked between Lancelot’s cheek and gum, then sits back, watching as Lancelot starts working his jaw and tonguing at his lips. Gawain sighs, reaching out to wipe a bit of drool that’s escaped and run down the other fey’s chin. His scruff is thicker now, scratchy against Gawain’s palm, but then Gawain’s well on his way to a beard, too. 

Perhaps he’ll try to shave later.

Lancelot tries to awkwardly tug the yarrow out of his mouth, and Gawain quickly stops him, pulling his hands away. “Shh,” Gawain murmurs, squeezing the other’s wrists. “Leave it. It’s Bloodwort seeds, good for you. It’ll help.”

And while Lancelot looks as confused and hazy as ever, he stops pushing at Gawain, stops trying to pull the herbs from his mouth. In fact, he purses his lips a bit, cheeks sinking in like he’s sucking. He grimaces as he does, and it makes Gawain chuckle even as his heart soars. Lancelot’s still there, his mind is still working.

“I know. It tastes like spicy horse shit,” Gawain says, patting him on the shoulder. Then, “Get more rest, Brother. You need rest to heal.”

Lancelot grunts, unhappy, but he’s asleep again within minutes.

~*~

Another full night and another full day pass, and the Ashman stays delirious.

Gawain doesn’t lose hope, though he also stays braced for what may be inevitable. He even gathers some fallen and low-hanging branches, wood he’ll be able to use for a pyre if needed. He stacks it off to the side, inconspicuous, like extra firewood, though he knows better.

Otherwise, he stays busy, keeps Squirrel busy as well so the boy doesn’t fret. He takes Squirrel further into the woods and lets him hunt down rabbit and squirrel that Gawain cooks over the fire and Lancelot won’t eat. He sends the boy out on the easy duties, too—taking the horses to be watered, picking more berries, refilling the skins in the stream—while he does a check around the perimeter, then takes a much-needed bath.

Lancelot has a small kit in one his saddlebags. Just a bit of lye soap, a steel razor, and a broken piece of a looking glass. Plenty enough for Gawain to clean himself up, and so he does. He goes down to the stream and undresses and submerges himself in the frigid water. 

He takes his time bathing, trying to just _not think_ about their situation for a bit, then fails at the ‘not thinking’ when he starts wondering if he should bother washing his clothes. The bloodstains aren’t going to come out, and that’s not even mentioning all the rips and tears, the long cut in the front where Lancelot’s blade had pierced his gut. 

He runs his fingers over his stomach, over the scar there, gnarled and knotted like it is years old and long-healed, not a wound he’d just received days earlier.

But he leaves it be, no answers to his many questions. He just carefully shaves off the beard he’s grown and dresses in his dirty clothes, then heads back to camp. He shoos Squirrel off to bathe as well, warning the boy to be careful and to be back before dusk, before moving onto Lancelot. 

The yarrow is gone—either spit out or swallowed, hopefully the latter—and so Gawain prepares more. It’s a perfect repetition each time, complete with gagging and biting, but Gawain manages to get the herbs stuffed between the Ashman’s cheek and gums nevertheless. And he’s almost positive he’s not imagining the look of complete outrage on Lancelot’s face when he steps away.

“What? I’m trying to help you!” Gawain snaps.

Lancelot never replies, only sleeps.

~*~

Their fourth night at the new camp, and Gawain awakes in the dark of night to movement nearby. He sits up quick, hand reaching for his sword, but recognizes the figure kneeling by the campfire immediately.

“Lancelot?” he murmurs.

The Ashman raises his head and looks over, low light from the moon setting shadows over his features. His cloak is wrapped loose around his shoulders, hood down, and he has a satchel clutched in his hands. It takes Gawain a moment to realize that it’s the bag they’ve been using to gather berries, previously one of the bay’s saddlebags, and he watches as Lancelot curls his legs underneath himself to sit and continues to eat with gusto.

“Easy,” Gawain says, quiet. A glance at Squirrel shows him to still be sleeping. “Don’t eat too much, too fast, you’ll be sick.”

“I know,” Lancelot whispers back. Then, “How long have I been out?”

“You’ve been in and out for a few days,” Gawain tells him. 

“Yes. My memories are—hazy at best,” Lancelot says, picking through the berries in the bag.

Gawain watches him eat for a few moments, heart beating a staccato in his chest, before he repeats, “I'm serious, be careful eating. I’ve been able to give you water, but you haven’t eaten for a while now. You’ll be sick.”

Lancelot nods, setting the berries aside and reaching for a waterskin instead. Gawain watches him drink—head tipped back, throat bobbing, moonlight playing over the apple of his throat. 

“You’re feeling better?” Gawain manages to ask. 

“I’m awake,” Lancelot answers with that rough noise, an almost chuckle. Then, “Did I—my mouth tastes like a fire…”

“I found yarrow in the woods,” Gawain tells him. “And I just crushed it and put it in your mouth. We didn’t exactly have any ginger or honey to make tea, not that I could have gotten you to drink it anyway.”

Lancelot nods, then looks across the burnt-out fire to where Squirrel is curled up on his bedroll, still sleeping. Even in the dark, Gawain can see his smile.

“Squirrel’s been worried about you,” Gawain says. “We’ve both been worried.”

“Hmm.” He turns back to Gawain, his eyes so dark under the moonlight. Gawain’s relieved when he looks away.

Something’s happened to him in the past few days, and he’s not sure what. Perhaps it’s the other fey’s suffering—having watched Lancelot creep along at the edge of death’s doorstep, having pressed water to his lips and medicine in his mouth—or perhaps his own self-spoken words about kinship have finally taken root. But Gawain looks now and no longer sees the Weeping Monk. He just sees another tired, broken fey in need of a home.

“There’s more yarrow,” Lancelot says. It’s not a question.

“You can smell it,” Gawain realizes aloud. Then, rolling to the side so he can get to his pack, “Here.”

He picks out of handful of the feathery flowers and hands them over. Lancelot takes them with a nod, grabbing up the two stones Gawain has been using to crush them up and beginning to do so. The _clack clack_ of the stones connecting is what wakes Squirrel, and the boy startles up out of bedroll, looking around until his eyes land on Lancelot. Surprisingly, the boy doesn’t say anything, doesn’t yell out his excitement, just jumps up and bounds over to wrap his arms around Lancelot in a hug.

“Easy with him,” Gawain says, as Lancelot very obviously flinches. “He’s still not well.”

“It’s alright,” Lancelot murmurs, laying his bruised cheek against the top of the boy’s head in quiet affection. Then, “Have you behaved for your Green Knight?”

Squirrel shoves him at that, huffing all scandalized, and Lancelot somehow grunts in pain and chuckles at the same time. The whole thing makes Gawain smile, heart clenching in his chest. “Squirrel, go lie back down,” he says. “It’s the middle of the night, let’s try to sleep. You can catch Lancelot up on things in the morning.”

“Okay,” Squirrel says, even though he doesn’t sound particularly happy about it. He gives Lancelot one last hug and says, “I’m happy you’re better.”

Gawain doesn’t bother correcting him, pointing out that Lancelot still has a ways to go. Neither does Lancelot say anything, just bids Squirrel a quiet ‘goodnight.’

“Is there anything I can do?” Gawain asks, while Lancelot puts crushed yarrow under his tongue.

Lancelot shakes his head, rising and going back to his tree. His movements are stiff and unsteady, but he’s moving on his own, without help. The times in the past few days, during those moments of almost-lucidity when he’d struggled halfway to his feet, when Gawain had tried to push him back to the ground only for Lancelot to mumble that he needed to relieve himself—Gawain had had to all but drag him across to the tree they’d been using, then hold him up while he fumbled with the laces on his trousers and pissed. 

He’d told himself the other fey would do the same for him if their positions were reversed, though he’s still not entirely convinced of it deep down in his gut.

But then, once settled against the tree again with his cloak wrapped around him, Lancelot says, “Thank you.”

Gawain sighs. “I found the yarrow in the woods while I was hunting,” he says, quiet. “I didn’t know if it would actually help, but I figured that it couldn’t hurt.”

“No, I mean, _thank you_ ,” Lancelot says. His speech is garbled from the herbs in his mouth. “For all your kindness. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d left me to die. I still won’t blame you.”

“I would have blamed myself,” Gawain answers. 

Lancelot doesn’t reply, just shakes his head and reclines back against the tree. Gawain stares at him for a long moment, before he lies back down on his bedroll.

He sleeps better that night that he has in a while.

~*~

Once Lancelot starts recovering, he recovers quickly.

With the yarrow to help, the other fey does infinitely better. It’s almost as though his body just needed some assistance to start knitting things together. He’s still a bit unsteady on his feet, limping around camp, but he’s awake, eating and drinking on his own, talking in that low rumble of a voice.

He naps on and off—he’s still healing, Gawain figures, he still needs the rest—but when he’s awake he entertains Squirrel with silly stories and games scratched out in the dirt. And he goes over often to check on his horse, murmuring soft words under his breath that Gawain can’t hear, petting his black coat while the horse noses and lips at his face and shoulders. It’s tender, gentle, and Gawain hates that it makes his heart clench in his chest.

Lancelot gathers up his wash kit the second morning after waking and begins stumbling his way down toward the creek. Gawain catches him before he gets too far and asks, “Are you alright alone? You need help?”

Lancelot eyes him for a long moment before answering, “I’ll be fine.”

Gawain nods, then watches him continue to hobble away.

He busies himself around the camp while Lancelot’s away bathing. He cleans out the ash and burnt wood from the fire, then goes out with Squirrel for more berries. They’ve mostly picked the bushes clean—they’re going to have to move on soon. Not just because of the berries, but they’ve lingered here long enough for Gawain to deem it dangerous.

It’s what Gawain is thinking when they return to camp and find Lancelot still gone. It's been too long, and Lancelot _is_ still injured, naked and vulnerable while he’s bathing. Gawain should have gone down to the creek with him, whether the Ashman wanted him to or not. 

Or maybe Gawain’s overreacting. After all, Lancelot had put his blade in Gawain’s gut like he was an uncomplicated match. And sure, Gawain had been distracted by the green crawling up the other’s hand, but Lancelot’s skill is unquestionable. A few Paladin stragglers wouldn’t be an issue for him, Gawain’s sure, but still…

Gawain marches off toward the creek, sword in hand.

He finds Lancelot sitting on a rock, feet and calves submerged in the cold water. He’s still nude, his clothes spread out and drying on the grass behind him, wet hair slicked back and partially covering the shaved patch and carved cross on the back of his head. And his back, facing Gawain, is littered with half-healed lacerations intermixed with even more scars. 

Gawain comes to a sudden stop, almost tripping over his own two feet, and just stares.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there just taking it in—many of the cuts and scars look as though they’ve been inflicted by a torturer with a whip, but just as many look as though they’ve been self-inflicted, as though the other fey has lashed himself over his shoulders. But then Lancelot swivels on his rock, turning to the side, and asks, “Is everything alright?”

Gawain blinks. There’s another marking indicidant of the Ashfolk on Lancelot’s thigh, ash-colored lines spiraling in a beautiful, absent pattern around the muscle and curling up to end at his hipbone. The skin underneath looks strange, though, the wrong color and the wrong texture, and Gawain walks closer, brows furrowed, trying to see.

Lancelot pulls his leg up when Gawain steps up next to him, crooking it across to cover himself. And as Lancelot moves, Gawain realizes…

“They burnt you,” he says, motioning. Then, a sudden horrible thought. “Or you put the fire to yourself?”

Lancelot narrows his eyes, but he relaxes, leg falling back out where it’d been. Gawain gets a glimpse at his chest and belly—the dark bruises Gawain had seen a week ago now fading to greens and oranges and yellows—much better than before.

He resolutely does _not_ look at the other fey’s soft cock and balls tucked neatly between his thighs.

“They tried to cleanse me,” Lancelot says, leaning down to rinse his razor in the water. He’s looking more himself now that he’s shaving away his beard—more intimidatingly familiar. 

“By burning away the mark of your people,” Gawain says, shaking his head.

“It came back every time,” Lancelot replies.

“Every time?” Gawain says, still staring at the heavy keloid scarring.

Lancelot doesn’t answer, just picks up his small mirror and goes back to shaving.

Gawain sighs, says, “The more I see, the less I blame you.”

“I don’t need your sympathy,” Lancelot hisses.

“It’s not sympathy, it’s…” But he doesn’t really know.

Lancelot watches him for a long moment, blue eyes reflecting the blue off the water. Gawain just wishes he could know what was going on behind that blue gaze.


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still blown away by the response guys, thank you so much for reading and leaving comments/kudos! I hope everyone is doing well, stay safe out there. <3

They pack up and move on as soon as Lancelot’s able to ride again.

They wait around longer than Gawain would like before leaving, but when he says as much, Lancelot starts once again with his argument of taking Squirrel and leaving him behind. And for the first time, it devolves into an _actual_ argument, a few nasty words and hard stares thrown around between them while Squirrel looks on with wide eyes. So Gawain eventually folds, just makes sure he frequently checks the perimeter while they stay a few more days, waiting until Lancelot is moving steadier and not sleeping so often.

And then their little ragtag trio mounts up and sets off.

Gawain finds himself annoyed at the Ashman for no reason he can pinpoint. He decides after a while that it must be due to their delay in moving on, even if he knows the situation wasn’t in Lancelot’s control—even though Lancelot is clearly pushing through the pain, still bruised and intermittently cramping due to his injuries.

Plus, he’s still frustrated over their spat. Gawain’s not one to hold grudges—if there’s one thing he’s learned over the years, it’s that life is too short and uncertain to stay angry. But it’s almost as though Lancelot _wants_ to be left behind, as though he’d _like_ to be dragged off and killed by red robes. Gawain hadn’t spent three days hovering over him, caring for him and worrying for him and praying for him, only for the other fey to still have this suicidal attitude toward his own existence. 

The ungrateful bastard. It’s infuriating.

They continue to have small squabbles during the day while they ride. Lancelot says they should try to head West and make it to the road, ride there through the day, then head back toward the creek at dusk. Gawain asks him if he’s gone mad—he apparently wants them _all_ to get killed—at which point Lancelot curses at him, and then Gawain asks him if that’s how a good monk of Rome really talks…

Lancelot spends a while after that not speaking. It wouldn’t be noticeable if it weren’t for Squirrel offering comments occasionally, riding in front of Gawain and pointing out animals in the trees. Lancelot rarely speaks without reason, but he usually finds some reason to reply to Squirrel. 

The other fey’s silence is deafening.

They stop briefly when the sun’s high in the sky, stretching their legs while off the horses and ducking into the trees to relieve themselves, drinking from their waterskins and eating what’s left of the berries. Lancelot pulls the stick out of his ass and mounts his horse again in a better mood, pulling Squirrel up with him at the boy’s request, and Gawain relaxes some then. 

They’ve been enemies for years, so it’s natural that they’ll clash occasionally, Gawain decides. He just needs to breathe and let the little things go, not be so quick to react. They can get along, because Gawain _does_ respect the other fey and what he’s done. He’s turned away from everything he knew and risked his own life all for one young boy—and it doesn’t make up for all the other lives he’s taken, all the other wrongs he’s committed, but it’s a start.

He deserves some basic respect and kindness. If not Gawain’s friendship, he deserves Gawain’s acceptance. 

But then after an hour, two hours at most, Lancelot reins to a sudden halt, his chin high and head cocked to the side. He’s already dismounting by the time Gawain pulls up next to him, frowning. “Are you alright?” Gawain asks.

“Fey came through here,” Lancelot says, pulling the reins over his horse’s head then shoving them at Gawain. “Hold Goliath. Watch Percival.”

And as Lancelot stalks off toward the treeline, hood pulled low and cloak drifting behind him like a shadow, Gawain suddenly _gets it._ Gets why he is so _fucking_ irritated, and has been since they started traveling. Really even before then, ever since Lancelot has been well enough to open his mouth and alternate between giving orders and questioning Gawain. 

Gawain bites his tongue hard enough to bleed, but still can’t help himself from snapping out a sarcastic _“Yessir”_ to Lancelot’s retreating back.

Lancelot stops and turns slowly, giving Gawain one of his distinctive blank stares. Except Gawain’s beginning to realize that the other fey has a variety of ‘blank stares’. He’s become very well acquainted with the one that means Lancelot’s in excruciating pain, the one that says, _‘if I were anyone else I would be screaming and crying, but I refuse to show any weakness.’_

The one Lancelot’s leveling at him now? Gawain’s pretty sure it means, _‘I think you are the most irritating creature on these shores.’_

“Right back at you, Ash Brother,” Gawain says, watching as Lancelot sighs deeply before turning back and disappearing into the trees.

Squirrel sniggers next to him from atop Goliath, but then he asks, “Why are you both being so nasty?”

Gawain shakes his head before he says, “He seems to think I am his underling.”

“You’re acting the same way,” Squirrel says, matter of fact, and Gawain cuts his eyes over. Unfazed, Squirrel continues, “Anyway, I don’t think Lancelot realizes. He’s just doing what he always does.”

“What?” Gawain asks.

“You know. He was always in charge, before…” Squirrel trails off with a frown, before taking a breath and starting again. “Just like you’re in charge—you’re the Green Knight!”

And oh… Okay, now Gawain _really_ gets it, and he feels like an absolute idiot for not realizing before.

Gawain led his fey warriors into battle against the Red Paladins, just like Lancelot almost always had a small army of red robes behind him. They’re both leaders, commanders, whatever their titles might have been. They’re butting heads out of a sheer expectation of control.

“Oh,” Gawain says, quiet.

Squirrel just looks at him, big blues eyes in that little round face, before he says, “Yeah.”

It’s a few minutes before Lancelot returns. “Two fey came this way on horseback,” he announces, taking Goliath’s reins from Gawain. “Both Tusks. Male and female, I believe…”

“Okay, then we follow,” Gawain decides, then braces himself for Lancelot to argue.

But Lancelot nods, mounting up again behind Squirrel and looping his arm securely around the boy’s waist. “I think that’s our best plan,” he says. “If I can track our way to a larger group of fey, then you’ll both have somewhere safe to settle.”

“We’ll _all_ have somewhere safe to settle,” Gawain corrects.

Lancelot’s expression hardens. “I—," he begins, but then Squirrel twists in the saddle and stares up at the Ashman with big, expectant eyes. Lancelot shuts his mouth fast, eyes sliding over to Gawain with a testy look, then after a long pause, says, “Let’s ride.”

~*~

The sun’s getting low in the sky when Gawain notices Lancelot’s shoulders going tense, his spine straight and rigid in the saddle.

He doesn’t think anything of it at first. The Ashman is still injured even if infinitely better than just days earlier, and they’ve been riding for hours straight, for near the whole day. They’ll stop soon, make camp for the night and rest. In fact, probably best to head back toward the creek now before the sun begins to set. Give themselves ample time to care for the horses and care for themselves before darkness falls.

“We should consider turning back East. Making camp by the creek,” Gawain says. “We can pick up the trail again…”

“Silence!” Lancelot hisses, and Gawain bristles at the tone.

“Pardon me…”

“Men came through here. Man-bloods,” Lancelot interrupts, head turned to speak over his shoulder. He taps under his hood at his nose to emphasize the point.

Gawain’s eyes widen, adrenaline spiking. Squirrel must start squirming in front of Lancelot—Gawain is riding behind them both, so he can’t see—but the other fey adjusts his seat in the saddle, shoulders shifting under his cloak as he hefts the boy around. Gawain can hear Lancelot speaking, that low rumbly growl, but he can’t make out the words. 

He spurs his horse on until he draws up alongside them both. Lancelot glances at him out of the corner of his eye, says, “We just need to keep moving.”

“The sun is going to set,” Gawain points out. “And you’re still wounded. We can’t keep riding through the night.”

“And the alternative?” Lancelot murmurs.

Gawain sighs, because he knows as much. When he continues to speak, he stays quiet. “Can you, I don’t know, hear anything?”

Lancelot shakes his head. “If they’re close, they’re being silent.”

Gawain nods. “Then let’s keep riding. And keep me informed—we’ll stop once it’s safe.”

Except it never gets safe. Gawain rides besides Lancelot as the sky grows dark above them. They stray off the road into the trees, hoping to use the cover of the forest to stay out of sight. Gawain notices Lancelot cocking his head and raising his chin occasionally, nostrils flaring—near imperceptible in the dark and under his hood, but then Gawain is watching him. 

Gawain is watching him more than is probably necessary.

The other fey is objectively a gorgeous creature. Shadowy and enigmatic under his hood, hiding the deep blue of his eyes and the sorrowful marks trailing down his cheeks. And his lean, lithe body is lovely, once again suited in his light armor, his scabbard buckled around his waist. The scabbard is horribly empty now, but his dagger is tucked smartly into the belt, the bow and quiver tied to Goliath’s saddle.

Gawain has bedded men before—in fact, he prefers the strength and fierceness of a fellow fighter over the softness of a healer or agrarian or priestess. Not that he hasn’t taken a few warrior women to bed over the years, but there is something about having hard angles and solid muscles under his hands. Something about the way his skin feels after another has kissed him with a scratch of stubble. Something about the salt-skin taste of a blood-hot cock in his mouth.

And while he’s never felt guilt for his desires before—fey celebrate love and joinings between two men and two women just as they do between one man and one woman—this want coiling in his belly is the least appropriate response he can have to the killer.

Maybe all his annoyance isn’t actually _at_ the other fey. Maybe some of it is reserved solely for himself.

He’s clearly going mad.

~*~

They ride through the night, stopping only once to relieve themselves and trade off Squirrel. 

The boy falls asleep eventually in the quiet, lulled by the rhythmic sway of the horse’s walk. Lancelot holds him up in his arms for quite a while, but the Ashman is fading himself, slumping down in the saddle and breathing heavy. When Gawain makes the decision to stop for a minute, Lancelot doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even reply—just reins to a halt and wakes Squirrel so they can dismount.

Then they mount up again and ride on, Gawain holding Squirrel against his chest when the boy dozes off again. He keeps an eye on Lancelot, speaks to him when it looks as though the other fey is about to fall asleep as well—idle conversation, old fey legends, quiet so they hopefully won’t be overhead by any enemies nearby. And perhaps it’s his imagination, but he thinks Lancelot may shoot him a grateful look for the effort.

The sun’s beginning to rise again when Lancelot finally stops. Gawain’s not surprised—his own body is struggling, aching in his exhaustion, so he can’t imagine how Lancelot must feel. “Let’s go back toward the water,” Gawain says, even though he doesn’t actually know how far from the creek they are now. 

Squirrel wakes, looking around tiredly, while Lancelot nods, says, “Many have come through this way. Fey and man-blood alike.”

“Many?” Gawain asks, nervous. “How many is that?”

“Difficult to tell. More than we can fight off.” Lancelot shakes his head. “It’s the fact that they are together that concerns me.”

“Fey and man together,” Gawain says, nodding. “Red Paladins with prisoners?”

“I do not know.”

“Did they have a camp in this area?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Lancelot shakes his head. “If we are where I think we are, though, the main road should split up ahead. East and West. West heads to the coast. To docks, boats…”

“People trying to escape the fighting.” Gawain can fill in the blanks. 

“I’m just surprised we haven’t seen anyone,” Lancelot says. “The scents aren’t so old.”

“We’ve been in the woods. Perhaps we just didn’t notice…”

“I would have heard them pass on the road,” Lancelot says, grim.

Gawain nods, frowning, and follows when Lancelot reins back toward the creek.

~*~

They head North to the crossroads then start moving West, only stopping to camp as often as strictly necessary. 

It’s when Gawain begins to notice things about himself, about his own body. He gets a splinter gathering wood when they stop, and he thinks nothing of it at first—it’s nothing that hasn’t happened many times before. He digs it out of his hand before lying down to sleep, and it bleeds and begins to scab over and…

When he wakes up the next morning, there is nothing. No small puncture in his hand, no scab—just a little fine white scar visible if he looks hard enough.

It makes no sense, but then he begins to think. He’d been so involved in Lancelot that he hadn’t really been paying attention to himself, to the many small cuts and bites and bruises that are just a normal occurrence from being out and making camp in the woods.

His body is spotless, scarred but unbroken. 

Lancelot had bitten him repeatedly when Gawain had given him those herbs. The other fey had left toothmarks on his fingers, yet he doesn’t have bruises.

He’s tired, both physically and emotionally drained, and his muscles ache from his hours astraddle the horse and from sleeping on the hard ground. But otherwise…

He cuts himself on purpose while skinning a rabbit. Just a quick slice of the knife, a burst of pain and a splash of red that he passes off as clumsiness and exhaustion. He can tell Lancelot doesn’t buy this explanation, his impassive expression somehow dubious as well, which Gawain figures is fair. If Lancelot tried the same explanation on him, Gawain would call foul immediately. 

Though when he wakes the next morning and finds the cut on his palm healed clean over, he fears for his sanity. He pulls Lancelot aside before they mount up to continue riding, shoves his shaking hand under the other fey’s nose. “Tell me you see this, too,” he demands. “Tell me I haven’t gone mad.”

Lancelot stares at his hand for a long moment, then meets Gawain’s gaze. “I see your hand, yes,” he answers, tone wary, as though he thinks Gawain may indeed be going insane.

“No, I cut myself yesterday evening,” Gawain says, gesturing. There’s a fine white line, a scar, but otherwise… nothing. “Do you not remember…?”

He sees the moment Lancelot comprehends, the moment that stone mask of indifference shatters. Gawain allows it when Lancelot grasps his hand in both of his own, turning it this way and that, as though somehow if he just looks harder it will appear different. It doesn’t, though, because of course it doesn’t, and Lancelot eventually drops his hand.

“You see,” Gawain says, needlessly, and Lancelot’s gaze is so open, unguarded. He looks very young underneath the façade, Gawain thinks. It’s something he’s thought each time he’s watched the mask fall. 

“Don’t…” Lancelot hisses, pointing to the offending appendage. “Do not tell _anyone_ about that.”

“Who would I tell?” Gawain asks, looking around them, at Squirrel sitting atop Goliath waiting and _no one else._

“Your people, when we find them…”

“Our people,” Gawain tries to interrupt, but Lancelot just speaks over him.

“…or any workers, crewmen, if we find ourselves at the docks…”

“I’m not planning on announcing that I—," he snaps, except he can’t bring himself to say it. Not that he even understands.

He finds his hand drifting to his stomach, to the scar from Lancelot’s blade. Lancelot’s eyes follow the motion, an indiscernible expression on his face, before the other fey sighs and says, “I do not know much, but if there’s one thing I have learned in my years, it’s that people fear what they do not understand.”

Gawain opens his mouth to argue—not their people, their people are accepting and kind—but then he thinks of the elders, those old enough to know the old magics, enchantments and curses. He can already hear their talk of old gods and demons, and his breath dies in his throat. He nods once, then asks, “And you?”

“You’re breathing, I’m asking no questions,” Lancelot says. Then, “We never spoke of this.”

“Aye,” Gawain says, but Lancelot is already turning away, stalking back over to his horse. He pulls the hood of his cloak back up before he mounts, while Squirrel begins some very incessant questioning— _what were you talking about? is everything okay? what’s wrong?_

And for the first time that Gawain has heard, Lancelot snaps at the child to mind himself, to be silent and behave. 

Squirrel reacts about as well as expected, and Gawain spends the next couple hours continuously telling the boy to keep his voice down. That Gawain agrees, a former Paladin doesn’t have any right to speak to him that way—even if that former Paladin is another fey—but none of that will matter if they end up captured and killed by man-bloods. 

Lancelot doesn’t respond to them, even while they are speaking _about_ him, though he still rides with his arm looped securely around the boy’s waist, close and protective. 

It doesn’t escape Gawain’s attention that Squirrel keeps one little hand firmly on Lancelot’s forearm all the while.

~*~

As badly as Gawain hates to admit it, he quickly realizes that they’d be doomed without Lancelot acting as their guide. 

By heading West they’re forced to abandon the stream, but Lancelot’s able to locate water as they travel. They only find small ponds out in the woods, but the water’s always fresh and drinkable, which is all that matters. Gawain doesn’t know how Lancelot does it—if he’s been here before and knows the area, or if he can smell it the air, hear the breeze rippling the water’s surface. He doesn’t ask, and Lancelot doesn’t share.

They begin encountering other riders and carriages on their way to the docks, but Lancelot can sense them coming long before they’re in sight. It gives them time to get off the road and find cover in the woods. It becomes so routine, it’s unspoken. If Lancelot reins his horse off the road, Gawain follows—when Lancelot reins his horse back to the road, Gawain follows once again. 

In the two days they ride, they’re never noticed. 

It’s the second night that it all falls apart.

They stop to camp late in the night, stars shining overhead and torchbugs buzzing. It’s chilly out, but Lancelot douses the fire before he settles against a tree. Best to draw as little attention as possible, and it’s comfortable enough once hunkered down.

Gawain doesn’t know how long it’s been—he’s been dozing on and off, glancing at Squirrel and Lancelot both in moments of restlessness, when suddenly he’s being shaken awake. He startles up and into Lancelot, knocking shoulders with the other fey and reaching for him to steady himself. “What?” he murmurs, looking around, but Lancelot is already whispering to him.

“We’re not alone. We’re being watched.”

Gawain’s stomach plummets, and he scrambles up from the ground, grabbing his bedroll as he goes. Lancelot rushes over to Squirrel in the meantime, hand squeezing the boy’s side, murmuring words Gawain can’t hear. Gawain begins to lash his bedroll to the back of the bay’s saddle, opens his mouth to tell Squirrel to bring his over as well, then… 

It happens so fast, and the sound is near deafening in the silence. There’s the tight, stiff noise of a bow being drawn, then the release, and then the _thud_ as it connects. Gawain doesn’t see it hit, his back turned, but he hears the breath _whoosh_ out of Lancelot’s lungs. When he whips back around, he finds Lancelot curled over Squirrel, one arm holding himself up and the other pulling the boy underneath himself.

Gawain’s inanely reminded of the first time he’d come upon them both together, Lancelot shielding Squirrel with his own body, ready to take a sword or an arrow for the child. And here he is, ready to do it again—he’s already _done_ it again. So Gawain doesn’t really give it much thought. He just knows that Lancelot’s still recovering from whatever happened at the Paladin encampment, while Gawain himself is whole and healthy. 

He throws himself down on top of Lancelot, hands on the other fey’s shoulders to pull him to his chest. Lancelot grunts in pain, Squirrel breathing quick and panicked underneath them both, and Gawain murmurs, “It’s ok, I’ve got you, it’s okay.” Even though it’s nonsense. It’s not okay, and he has nothing—his sword is on the ground meters away, and their bow is still strapped to Goliath’s saddle.

Though Lancelot must realize what he’s thinking… “My dagger’s at my waist,” he grits out from between his teeth, and so Gawain reaches around, pulls it from the other’s belt while bracing for the pain of an arrow in his back. 

The pain never comes. Instead, a familiar voice says, “Gawain, move away.”

“No,” Gawain says, simple, to the point. “Who is there?”

The man doesn’t answer. “You’re protecting the Weeping Monk. Move away.”

Lancelot begins praying underneath him, so quiet it’s barely audible, but Gawain is incredibly close, hair brushing the Ashman’s shoulders. He hears, and his heart breaks. “I know who he is,” Gawain says _. He has protected this young boy, protected me, _he thinks. _He’s not just of our kind, but he’s my ally now, too,_ he thinks. He says, “We’ve come to an agreement. A truce.”

Someone else hidden in the trees scoffs. The familiar voice says, “What has he done to you?”

Before Gawain can formulate a response, Squirrel yells, “He’s one of us!”

Lancelot continues to pray.

Gawain swallows down the lump in his throat and says into the silence, “Yes. He’s fey. Ashfolk.”

“Horse shit!” another voice snarls from the trees. Gawain wonders how many there are.

“He is!” Squirrel squalls. Gawain shushes him. 

Footsteps close by, and Gawain looks to the side to see a faun walking toward them, sword drawn. He’s a familiar face, someone Gawain has fought beside in the past. “Saeth…”

Dark eyes flit to Gawain before they turn back to Lancelot. He tips the Ashman’s chin up with the point of his sword, looking over his face. “They’re drawn with kohl, Gawain,” he says. “You can’t be fooled…”

Lancelot makes a wet, hiccupping noise while Gawain sighs. He moves slow so as not to startle the faun, cupping Lancelot under his jaw and stroking a thumb across his cheek, across where he knows the ash-tears are streaked. Lancelot’s cheeks are damp.

Saeth frowns. “They’re tattoos,” he says.

Gawain shakes his head. He thinks about mentioning the markings he’d seen on the other’s thigh, but then doubts that would be convincing—it also seems too intimate a thing to share outright. Instead, he says, “I’ve seen him camouflage. Or at least attempt to. He’s fey.”

Another faun steps in closer, one Gawain doesn’t recognize. He has a bow in his hands, arrow knocked if not drawn. “Show us,” he says, voice low and aggressive. “If you expect us to believe that, show us.”

Gawain hasn’t seen Lancelot’s skin change since their fight, and he worries for a moment that maybe Lancelot doesn’t know _how_ , that perhaps it’s something that happened in a moment of pain and panic. Gawain had nicked him, and Lancelot had faltered, almost fell. That’s when it’d happened. And it hadn’t even been a true camouflage, not like most snakeskins are capable of. He’d just sort of… soaked up some green from the leaves on the ground.

But then Lancelot digs his fingers down into the dirt, grabbing hold of some dying leaves, and Gawain watches as his skin begins to turn the same yellow-orange of the dried leaves.

Saeth lowers his sword with a scowl. The faun next to him hisses, “Traitor!”

With the imminent danger seemingly passed, Gawain sits up. “Don’t harm him,” he warns, trying to shake off the looks of disgust the others give him. He checks over Lancelot’s back, where the arrow’s lodged to the right of his spine, pinning his cloak down. Gods, just what the other fey needed, another injury.

Lancelot sits up with a wheezy breath, rolling his shoulders. He gets spit at by the fauns but neither raise their weapons again, so Gawain keeps his mouth shut. Squirrel wiggles out from underneath Lancelot, looking around in bewilderment. 

“You alright, Squirrel?” Saeth asks, going over to the boy.

Squirrel stares back, flabbergasted. “They saved me!” he says, gesturing at both Gawain and Lancelot. 

Gawain sighs, doesn’t bother trying to say anything more. There’s no point. He hadn’t really thought this far ahead, and now he’s realizing he’s made one huge mistake. The more he defends Lancelot, the crazier he sounds, the more he _himself_ sounds like a traitor. He just grabs hold of the arrow in Lancelot back and says, “On the count of three. One, two…”

He jerks back hard, hoping to get the arrowhead out, but of course the shaft breaks and the head stays lodged in the muscle. Lancelot grunts, shoulders tensing, then murmurs, “Thank you.”

Gawain shakes his head. “You need a healer.”

The second faun kicks at Lancelot’s knee, then asks, “So, your mother fuck a Snakeman, Paladin? That why you can chameleon yourself?”

Gawain bites his tongue, standing and then offering his hand to Lancelot. Lancelot takes it, struggling up to his feet.

When he doesn’t get a response, then faun pokes at Lancelot with the end of his bow and says, “You hear me?”

“Yes,” Lancelot answers, low. Then, “There’s no need for vulgarity in front of the child.”

“You’ll slaughter his parents, but you won’t swear in front of him? Unbelievable,” Saeth snaps.

Meanwhile, Squirrel protests, “I know the word _‘fuck’_.”

“Percival,” Lancelot chides, soft.

“Don’t talk to him,” the second faun snarls, then smacks Lancelot across the stomach with his bow. Lancelot doubles over at the impact, almost goes down to his knees, but Gawain catches him in time. 

At least the two fauns have the good grace to look startled by the reaction.

“He’s injured,” Gawain tries to explain again, holding the other fey against himself while he regains his footing. “He was practically on death’s doorstep when I found him.”

“Should have let him die,” Saeth spits.

Gawain shakes his head. They could stand here and argue for the rest of the night, but they'd get nowhere. “I’m—I’m glad to see you both well,” Gawain says. “I truly am. But I’m not going to abandon my people—not _any_ of my people.”

There’s silence for a long moment. Squirrel stays next to Saeth, hand on his swordarm. Both the fauns frown at Gawain as though he’s personally offended them.

“Gawain,” Lancelot murmurs, voice hoarse. “Just leave me here…”

“Hush. We’re not doing this again. Just get on the horse,” Gawain snaps. Then, looking back at the fauns, “We’ll travel together. Were you headed to the docks?”

“No, we have an encampment nearby,” Saeth says. He eyes Lancelot and adds, “ _He’s_ not coming.”

“He needs a healer,” Gawain objects. “And that was _before_ you put an arrow in his back.”

And then, unbelievably, Squirrel announces, “I’m staying with Lancelot. If he doesn’t go, then I’m not either!”

“Percival,” Lancelot scolds again, but he just sounds tired. Guilty and tired.

“I’ll stay with him as well,” Gawain says, finding that he means it. It’s not just an idle threat—he truly means it. “He’s wounded, he needs help—if he’s not welcome in the encampment, then I’ll stay with him until he’s healthy enough to fend for himself. Then Squirrel and I will find you again.”

“Gawain,” Lancelot murmurs.

“No,” Gawain says. “You were there for Squirrel, so I’ll stay here for you. All fey are brothers…”

“You’ve gone mad, Gawain,” Saeth says. “What has this bastard done to you?”

“Just bind his hands up and throw him on the horse,” the second faun says, scowling. 

Gawain expects to be grabbed and manhandled onto a horse, but it’s Lancelot that gets grabbed, hands secured behind him with rope, then thrown over Goliath’s back. It can’t be comfortable—he’s laid out belly-down, insides compressed by his own weight. The Ashman doesn’t say anything, though, just groans once in pain when he’s first put on the horse. 

“He sees a healer, first thing,” Gawain orders once they all mount up.

“We’ll let the Queen decide what she wants to do with him,” Saeth counters, angry.

Those words… “Nimue is with you?” Gawain asks, so hopeful. 

The two fauns share a look, but refuse to answer him.


	4. Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, *thank you* for all your comments and kudos. I may not reply, but I read each and every one. I appreciate them more than you know. <3

After the fauns mentioned an encampment, Gawain is expecting a small gathering of fey tucked deep in the forest, hidden amidst tents and caves.

After the fauns mentioned a Queen, Gawain is expecting Nimue.

He’s not expecting to follow the fauns to the coast, to where tents upon tents are set up both on the sand and on the grass. He’s not expecting to be taken further up the coast to the docks, to a large raider ship moored amidst the merchant and ferry vessels. He would protest, but he’s too busy being quietly shocked at all the activity—fey and man-blood both openly coexisting, working and trading and conversing all around him. 

Gawain plays the part of captor, walking a tied Lancelot just in front of himself, hand on the ropes binding the other fey’s hands. They follow along behind the two fauns, past merchant stands and warehouses and groups of people starting their day as the sun begins to rise. Most are too wrapped up in their own business to notice Lancelot, though a few fey _do_ look up and recognize the Monk. Gawain bats them off when they lunge forward, Squirrel yelling out threats even while Gawain tells him to stop. 

The fauns are of no help. At least no one draws a weapon. 

Still, Gawain keeps Lancelot’s dagger tucked firmly in the side of his boot. He’s fairly certain the fauns don’t realize it’s there, didn’t see him take it from Lancelot’s belt and stow it away. It gives him some modicum of security.

The fauns lead them down into the belly of the raider ship and into a large meeting room. A war room of sorts, a sizeable table set in the middle with detailed maps spread across its surface and impressive trinkets laid out haphazardly. A few tankards are already out even though it’s morning, the wheat smell of alcohol heavy in the air. 

Gawain’s never been on a raider ship before, honestly never thought much of it—but if he’d ever had to guess what one was like, he figures he’d have said exactly this.

He has time to see a woman sitting at the head of the table—dark wild hair and defined, delicate features—before there’s the _shing_ a sword being unsheathed. Gawain pulls Lancelot back, but not before the blade swings down at the Ashman’s face. Lancelot ducks downs, then feints left, right, bends in ways Gawain would have thought impossible in his current condition if he weren’t watching it—and so he lets go of the other fey, bends down to pull the dagger from his boot and leaps forward to parry before Lancelot’s luck runs out.

He ends up face-to-face with the man-blood from the mill, the one who’d been so keen on Nimue. “Drop your blade!” Gawain orders.

“No! He’s mine!” Arthur yells in his face, and Gawain can _feel_ his eyes rolling, his lips curling in scorn. If one more outrageous thing happens, he may scream. 

Then, a ringing female voice. “Silence! And drop your weapons! _Both of you!_ ”

Gawain whips his head around to the woman at the head of the table. She standing now, her own sword drawn, the hilt of the blade ruby-encrusted. She looks extremely unimpressed by their display. “And you are?” Gawain responses, frustrated.

Arthur shoves him back, their blades disengaging, while the woman announces, “I am the Red Spear, rightful ruler of these lands. And you?”

“Ruler?” Gawain asks, eying first Arthur and then the two fauns standing off to the side. “How many rulers does this land _have_?”

And he fully expects to get chastised for his attitude, but before either Arthur or this ‘Red Spear’ can say anything, Saeth speaks up. “This is our Green Knight,” the faun says, tone steadfast and unyielding. An implied warning in the simple statement.

The Red Spear’s expression changes at that. Her eyes cut over to the fauns, brows rising, before she looks back to Gawain. “The Green Knight,” she says, then eyes him up and down. 

Gawain becomes suddenly, painfully aware that he is dressed in the same bloodstained, ripped clothing he’d woken up in nearly two weeks ago. He’s quite sure smells—Lancelot does, even the boy does. But he keeps his head high, answers, “Aye.”

“We thought you lost,” she says, expression softer now. Then, before Gawain can ask what she means by that, she continues, “Are you well? Do you need a healer?”

“No, but my fr—.” He bites back the word _‘friend’_ before it slips completely past his lips. “—traveling companion is injured. He needs to see a healer.”

“Your _traveling companion_?” Arthur demands, sword pointed at Lancelot in accusation.

“Arthur!” the Red Spear shouts, admonishing. “Lower your weapon! I’ll know _why_ this man is bound and brought before me _prior_ to his being cut down!”

“This is no man,” Saeth spits. “This is a monster who smiles as our people burn.”

“I still have the mark from his sword across my chest,” Arthur yells.

Gawain doesn’t let go of his dagger, but he takes hold of Lancelot by his bound hands once again, pulling him further back. The other fey stumbles as he moves, and Gawain thinks for one horrible moment that he’s been further injured in the fray—but then Squirrel is scurrying out of the way, trying to stay close without tripping anyone else. Gawain sighs, turns his attention back to the Red Spear, and says, “This man is fey, and…”

“He’s not fey. He fought for the Red Paladins,” Arthur interrupts, and Gawain squeezes the hilt of his dagger, praying for patience.

“He can speak for himself, can he not?” the Red Spear says. She stares down Lancelot, gaze firm and accessing. “What have you to say in your defense?”

There’s a long, tense silence before Lancelot begins, “I have—." He cuts off abruptly, coughing harsh and wet. Gawain can see the blood, red against his lips and against the collar of his cloak when he ducks his head to spit. Lancelot sucks in a wheezing breath, and says, “Apologies…”

“He needs a healer,” Gawain reiterates for the thousandth time.

“I see,” the Red Spear says, frowning. Then, to the fauns, “Go, make sure there is a bed open in the infirmary. If not, find one.”

The fauns just stare at her, while Arthur says, “Guinevere, you _cannot_ be serious.”

“And you would slay him. You’ve made your opinion clear, Arthur.” The Red Spear—Guinevere—rounds on Arthur. “But I’ve heard many stories of this Green Knight and his victories in just the short time we’ve been here. I can only assume that if he’s brought us this prisoner _alive_ and did not slay him himself, then there is some reason.”

 _He’s not my prisoner_ , Gawain thinks, but has the good sense not to say it aloud. Arthur glares. When she notices neither of the fauns have moved, Guinevere brandishes her sword in their direction. Saeth and his friend reluctantly slink away, both spitting at Lancelot’s feet as they pass.

“We’ll have your prisoner sent to the infirmary, but I still wish to hear from him,” Guinevere says to Gawain. Then, with a nod to Lancelot, “What have you to say?”

Lancelot clears his throat, the noise wet, before he says, “I’ve renounced the Paladins and the Church, and I’ve pledged my loyalty to the Green Knight and his Resistance.”

There’s ringing silence after that. Gawain tries to keep the look of shock and awe off his face. Finally, Guinevere asks, “And you are fey also, as your Knight said?”

Lancelot takes a deep rattling breath, as though steeling himself for the admission, before answering, “Yes, I am.”

“And you vouch for him?” Guinevere asks of Gawain.

“Yes, I do,” Gawain says.

Guinevere nods as though that settles it, before pointing her sword at Gawain and ordering, “He’s your charge. Should he cause violence, I’ll take both your heads.”

“That’s fair,” Gawain allows.

“Then take him to the healer. Saeth will be back soon, he can show you the way,” she says. Then, as though in afterthought, “And leave his hands bound until he’s off my ship.”

~*~

They end up being taken off the docks, down to where tents begin popping up on the grassy banks, and eventually ushered into a small lean-to. A straw mattress has been dragged in under the overhang, a few furs laid out overtop, and Lancelot collapses down on it when Gawain pushes him in its direction.

Meanwhile, Squirrel gets sent with Saeth to one of the children’s tents. The boy’s unhappy about the decision, that much is clear, and Gawain’s fairly certain he’ll see the boy once again lurking nearby in a few hours. Hopefully he’ll get some sleep first, though. All three of them need rest.

There’s a man-blood woman in the lean-to waiting for them. She’s an alchemist, not a healer—the lean-to is filled with a multitude of herbs strung up and drying, jars and bottles of poultices and tonics set out on shelves. _All of our healers are fey, and no fey will touch him,_ Saeth informs Gawain quietly before he leaves with Squirrel. And so Gawain finds himself kneeling at the edge of the mattress, helping Lancelot extricate himself from the tangle of his cloak and armor until he’s down to his breeches and boots. 

Gawain’s left helplessly staring at the other fey’s back. The lashes from the whip are all healed over now, leaving only scars, but the arrowhead is there snarled up in the skin and muscle, bloody and painful-looking. Gawain sighs and lets himself collapse down to sit on the ground, leaning back against the wooden wall, legs sprawled out in front of him.

The woman doesn’t speak as she sets up—as she starts a pot of water to boil, lays out cloths and tools on her work desk. She still doesn’t speak when she turns to them, though Gawain sees her falter at the sight of the other fey’s back. Her eyes rake over his skin, from the nape of his neck all the way to the waist of his breeches, before settling on the arrow wound. She moves past Gawain, then, sitting down on the mattress behind Lancelot and beginning to wipe away the blood with a clean, damp cloth. 

“I need to pull the arrowhead out,” she says eventually, quiet. “Let me give you something for the pain.”

“It’s not necessary,” Lancelot tells her, and she frowns, glancing at Gawain as if for assistance.

“Don’t be a martyr,” Gawain says, tapping the mattress with his foot. “You’ve been forced to endure your pain for near two weeks, but there’s relief now. Take it.”

Lancelot doesn’t reply, just peers back over his shoulder to look at Gawain, his eyes a shadowed blue. The woman clears her throat, then says, “I have a tonic of betony and gentium. I’ll mix in some poppy and wine—it should help you rest.”

“Aye, he may not wake until this time tomorrow,” Gawain says, grinning to himself. He lets his head knock back against the wall, eyes slipping shut. The days have caught up with him now that he’s sitting down—he’s so very exhausted.

“They told me you’d both been on the road for some time,” the woman says. There’s the _swish_ of her skirts as she moves past, then the _clink_ of glasses, the pouring of liquids. Gawain doesn’t bother opening his eyes.

“Yes, a couple of weeks,” he tells her. “We kept moving for the most part, but there were times we had to stop for his health. I thought we would lose him near the beginning…”

Gawain trails off, not really wanting to think of it anymore. It seems like a lifetime ago, yet at the same time it seems as though he was preparing himself to burn the other’s body just yesterday. He opens his eyes, looking over to where Lancelot is sitting cross-legged on the mattress, back still facing Gawain. He’s pulled his boots off as well now, his toes flexing and wiggling, one hand massaging the sole of his right foot. It’s all very mundane—as mundane as the Ashman eating and sleeping and shitting just like every other creature on these shores.

All that fear-inducing mystique has been a bit ruined by proximity, Gawain thinks.

The woman goes around the mattress and kneels in front of Lancelot, eye-level with him, before pushing a small clay cup into his hands. Lancelot brings it up to his face, sniffing, before apparently deeming the concoction drinkable. He sips from it while the woman looks him over, flinching when her hands find the bruising across his stomach and ribs.

“What happened here?” she asks.

“I was beaten with flails,” Lancelot says, which is news to Gawain even after everything. When Lancelot offers nothing further, though, Gawain steps in to tell the woman what had happened—because even if she’s no fey and no healer, she’s Lancelot best bet at the moment. She needs to know just how close he’d been to death.

The woman nods once Gawain finishes speaking. Her eyes search Lancelot’s face, though for what Gawain doesn’t know. Then she asks, “Do you recognize me?”

Gawain blood runs cold. He reaches for the dagger, once again tucked in his boot, ready for an altercation.

If she’d poisoned that tonic, surely Lancelot would have smelled it, right?

Lancelot exhales slowly, then says, “No. Should I?”

The woman folds her legs underneath herself and sits on the ground. “I didn’t think so,” she says, quiet. “It’s been years ago. I lived in the South, in Holtspeper, with my husband.” Her eyes slide past Lancelot to settle on Gawain, a watery smile on her face. “He was a fey man, my husband. Skyfolk, like you. He gave me a beautiful daughter…”

“I remember,” Lancelot says suddenly, voice hoarse.

There’s a long beat of silence. The woman looks back at Lancelot before she asks, “What happened?”

“I don’t harm the children,” Lancelot tells her. Familiar words.

“You—you took her from me,” she says, but she doesn’t sound upset or angry. She mostly just sounds confused. “You took my baby girl from my arms and then just left me there…”

“You’re human,” Lancelot says.

“You couldn’t know that, I was living with…”

“He can, he does,” Gawain interrupts. 

The woman shakes her head, speaks to Lancelot, “I thought you were taking her to throw her on a pyre. I was sure of it. But when I found the other few survivors later on, they had my Jaine with them. Said they’d found her crying under some bushes, still wrapped in her blankets. And I have wondered for years _how_ —she was an infant, she wasn’t even crawling yet then. She couldn’t have gotten away or hidden herself…” 

“I don’t harm children,” Lancelot repeats, though he’s turned his head away, eyes glued to the back wall.

“But then I knew how, really. It was you—it had to be, who else? I was afraid to say it then because, well, tensions were high, and I didn’t understand it at all. Though it all makes more sense now.”

Lancelot doesn’t answer her, and it’s all Gawain can do to just take it in. This had happened years ago, the woman said. The Ashman had been struggling with himself then just as he is now.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. I was trying to say thank you,” she speaks up eventually. “I know the others here are angry—and they have every right, I know—but my daughter is alive because you showed her a moment of compassion. Perhaps I’m just selfish, but that means more to me than you could ever know.”

“She could have been eaten by wolves, or frozen to death in the night,” Lancelot says.

“Yes,” the woman agrees. “But you gave her a chance, which is more than she would have been afforded otherwise. And it was all she needed.” 

Lancelot doesn’t reply, just glances at her for a moment before looking down into his cup. When he only stares, Gawain stretches to kick the mattress again, murmurs, “You need to drink that.”

“Yes, finish that. It will relax you,” the woman says, smiling sadly. “Then I’ll get that out of your back. You’ll feel better.”

Gawain watches as she stands, leaves Lancelot to drink the tonic and goes over to her workbench. “Thank you for agreeing to care for him,” Gawain tells her. “We’re both appreciative.”

“He has a place here to heal and rest. As long as he needs,” she says. “I know it’s not much—it’s just where I make my poultices—but it’s something.”

“It’s a roof. We’ll all stay dry if it rains,” Gawain says.

“Oh, you intend to stay?” she asks, surprised. “I’m sure they’ll find you somewhere to sleep. Why, I bet they’ll _move_ someone to make room…”

 _I’m not comfortable leaving him_ , Gawain thinks. _Someone will come slit his throat while he’s drugged and sleeping._ “I won’t take someone else’s space,” Gawain says.

“You’re a kind man,” she replies, folding some clean cloths.

“What’s your name, woman?” Lancelot speaks up suddenly.

Gawain winces, but the woman answers, “Evaine.”

“And your daughter? She’s well?” he asks, looking around himself as though expecting to see the child hidden in the corner of the lean-to. Gawain wonders if the tonic is already starting to take hold.

Evaine laughs quietly, walking over to take the empty cup from the other fey. “Yes, Jaine’s here with me. Or at least, she’s with a few of the other children on the beach, making castles in the sand.”

“Mmm. I’m glad,” Lancelot murmurs, before slowly lying down on his side.

Gawain’s heart swells, and he thinks, _Deep down, you’re good. They tried to break you, but they didn’t. They couldn’t._

He doesn’t say any of it, though. He just smiles at the back of Lancelot’s head, at the soft blond fuzz starting to grow on that shaved patch, and tries to beat back the fondness burning hot in his chest.

~*~

Gawain falls asleep sometime after Lancelot has drifted off, after Evaine has pulled the arrowhead from Lancelot’s back and stitched him up. 

When he finally wakes up, it’s dark out, and he has the unsettling feeling of eyes on him. He looks to the mattress first, expecting to see Lancelot awake, but the other fey is lying on his side facing Gawain, eyes closed and lips slightly parted, breathing deep. Still asleep. So Gawain knuckles at his tired eyes, looking the other way, and finds Kaze propped up against the far side of the lean-to.

“Kaze,” he breathes, scrambling up from the ground and going to her. He wraps her up in his arms, and she embraces him in turn. He can feel her smile against the side of his neck.

“Gods, Gawain. What’s happened to you?” she asks. “Nimue told us you were dead.”

“Nimue?” Gawain asks, heart leaping in his chest. He pulls away, hands on Kaze’s shoulders, holding her at arm’s length. “Nimue is here?”

Kaze nods. “She wishes to see you.”

There’s coughing behind him, and Gawain turns to find Lancelot leveraging himself halfway up on his elbow, wiping at his mouth with his other hand. His movements are sluggish, and his eyes still seem hazy when they find Gawain’s. His gaze slides past Gawain’s shoulder to settle on Kaze, and his blinks slowly, taking her in.

“Are you alright, Brother?” Gawain asks, going over to kneel next to him. Evaine’s left a waterskin by the mattress, and Lancelot reaches for it slowly, nodding in answer.

“What are you doing, Gawain?” Kaze says, quiet. She’s frowning in uncertainty when Gawain looks back at her.

“He’s fey…” Gawain begins, but Kaze shakes her head.

“I know. People are talking,” she says. Then, “Go, see Nimue. She’s in a large tent near the beach—it’s obvious, stands out. Pym’s waiting on the path, she’ll show you.”

“Pym’s alive, too?” Gawain says, before shaking his head, smiling. “Okay, I’m going, just—," he gestures to Lancelot, “—don’t harm him. He’s no threat.”

“Perhaps not now, like this,” Kaze says, glaring at the other fey. But still, she promises, “I won’t harm him. Nimue’s already ordered us not to touch your captive.”

Gawain nods, not bothering to correct her— _he’s not my captive, he wasn’t in ropes before we came here and I cut his bonds as soon as I was able._ He just reaches down to squeeze Lancelot’s shoulder and tells him, “I’ll be back soon, so just rest. Kaze will stay with you while I’m gone.”

“You just make assumptions,” Kaze says, though she’s offering him a crooked smile. Then, to Lancelot, “And I’m armed, Monk. So don’t try anything.”

Gawain’s already leaving, walking away down the path, but he hears Lancelot’s murmured reply, “I ache from head to toe, woman. I just want to sleep.”

As promised, Pym is waiting for him near the beach. She rushes forward to hug him tight, her cheek pressed against his chest, and he holds her back, so incredibly happy. He’s not sure why they’ve left Gramaire, why they’ve set up camp this far Northwest, why there is some human woman calling herself Queen living amongst them—but perhaps things are alright. Kaze is alive, Nimue is alive, Pym is alive…

“Oh my, don’t take this the wrong way. I mean, I’m so happy to see you back,” Pym says, letting Gawain go and looking at him with a wrinkled nose. “But you need a bath. And wow, a change of clothes.”

Gawain laughs, running a hand over his face. “Yes, yes, I know. It’s a been a long couple of weeks.”

“After you see Nimue, you’re having a proper wash,” Pym decides, before taking his hand and leading him down the beach. There’s a big, impressive-looking tent set up on a rocky overlook— _we stole it from Cumber’s lot,_ Pym tells him, gesturing, though when Gawain asks, _what?_ she just waves him off. And so they scramble up from the beach sands onto the outcroppings and then inside. 

The interior of the tent is softly lit with flickering flame, a lantern set into the corner. There are a few odds and ends about, wooden trunks of clothing, other sundry belongings, but a majority of the ground is covered in a pile of bedding. Furs, linens, a couple mattresses, and in the middle of it all…

“Nimue?” he exclaims, smiling, and hurries to her as she struggles to fully sit up. She’s injured, the bandages wrapped around her chest visible underneath the loose gown she’s wearing. She’s not dressed for receiving, not dressed for a man to see her, and once Gawain helps her sit up, he grabs one of the furs from behind her and wraps it around her shoulders. 

Nimue scoffs at him, says, “You are far too honorable a man. Now hug me, I thought you were dead.”

Gawain smiles even wider, then gently embraces her, careful of her wounds. Pym pipes up, “Don’t worry, I’ll make him bathe after this.”

Nimue laughs, though it’s a watery sound. Gawain lets her go, worried. “Did I hurt you?” he asks, seeing her eyes brimming with tears. “I can go get a healer. We’ll speak later.”

“No, no,” she says, reaching out to touch his face. She pets his cheeks for a moment, then tries to run her fingers through his dirty, tangled hair. She gets snagged on a knot, though, and just lets her hands fall to his shoulders. “You were dead, Gawain,” she says eventually, quiet. “They brought me your body. Your heart wasn’t beating, and you weren’t breathing. You were cool to the touch…”

And Gawain thinks of the gnarled scar on his stomach, the blemishes on his chest and arms. Thinks of the way he’d woken to his hand healed over, and the look on Lancelot’s face. Lancelot’s words: _if there is one thing I have learned in my years, it’s that people fear what they do not understand._ “You must have been mistaken,” Gawain tells her. “I don’t know what’s happened here, but you’re injured.”

Nimue shakes her head. “I wasn’t injured when I saw you. I know what I saw.”

Gawain sighs and looks back to where Pym has settled on one of the wooden trunks. She shrugs at him and says, “This is what she told us when they brought her back.”

“When they…?” Gawain asks, before running a hand over his face. “Nimue, what’s happened here? Why aren’t you at Gramaire?”

“You first,” she counters. “They tell me you’ve brought the Weeping Monk with you. That you’ve unbound his hands and found him a healer…”

“A human alchemist,” Gawain notes, interrupting.

Nimue waves him off. “You know that I trust you—I will always look at you and see you as my brother. But _please_ , explain to me what you are doing.”

“He’s fey,” Gawain says for what feels like the trillionth time.

“That doesn’t excuse what he’s done,” Nimue says.

Gawain nods, because he understands, he _does_ , it’s just… It’s more complicated than that, and so he tries to explain it to Nimue, because he owes her that much. He explains how Lancelot has been prepared to give his life for Squirrel’s, how he’s protected thee boy from the moment Gawain met him, how he’d been the one to steal Squirrel away from the Paladins. He explains the other fey’s disposition—quiet and a bit standoffish at times, though he’s been seriously wounded so Gawain can’t really fault him. And anyway, he’s been soft and gentle with Squirrel, nonviolent all around, which is what matters as far as Gawain’s concerned. Gawain can handle a prickly attitude just fine.

And he divulges the other things he’s seen and heard, because it’s Nimue and she deserves to know. He tells her some of the things Lancelot has said, things the Paladins clearly told him to warp his mind and manipulate him. And he tells her of the scars across the other fey’s back, the keloid burn marks on the other fey’s thigh, obvious signs of torture, punishments for the sin of existence.

And finally… “He’s renounced the Church,” Gawain says. “And pledged himself to the Resistance.”

Nimue and Pym share a long, significant look. 

“What?” Gawain asks.

“It still doesn’t justify …” Nimue begins.

“That sounds like a hard couple of weeks,” Pym interrupts. “Just you, he, and Squirrel. And you find yourself responsible for not only the boy but for him, as well. Fallen as he is.”

“It wasn’t easy,” Gawain allows. “But we made it.”

“By the very skin of your teeth, it sounds,” Pym says.

Gawain sighs. “Do you have a point?”

“That maybe after some rest, you can approach this from a more—emotionally distant…” Pym starts.

“But…!” Nimue starts, interrupting. “Guinevere was right, this afternoon. We’d be fools to cut down a young, healthy man who wants to fight for us—or at least, I’m assuming he will heal soon enough.”

“I agree, especially one with his skill. He alone is better than fifteen militiamen together,” Gawain says. “Though I must ask now—who is this man-blood raider woman calling herself Queen?”

Both Nimue and Pym laugh. Nimue answers, “A fierce woman who’s turned out to be quite the ally.”

“Another man-blood ally?” Gawain asks, frowning.

“She cares very little for the politics of these lands—perhaps it’s because she has sailed the seas most of her life, I don’t know. She’s agreed to help us so long as we help her.”

“And what are we helping her with?” Gawain says, scowling.

“We have a common enemy in the Red Paladins,” Nimue says. “And once she has taken the throne, she’s promised us back our lands. She’ll continue to drive out the Paladins and keep the peace.”

“You believe these empty lies?” Gawain asks.

“The enemy of thy enemy is thy friend,” Nimue says. Then, “She’s shown me regard, asked my opinion on a great many things. I respect that.”

“We would all be slaughtered on this beach if it weren’t for her and her men,” Pym speaks up, picking at her fingernail.

“I’m not sure I even want to know,” Gawain says, sighing. “But precisely why were you all on this beach at risk of slaughter in the first place?”

Nimue takes a breath and begins her story.

Afterward—after he’s scolded her for trying to trade herself and the sword, and after he’s quietly panicked at the idea of her falling from the top of a waterfall—yeah, Gawain sort of wishes he’d never asked.


	5. Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm being quite verbose, and this keeps getting longer than I planned. It's probably going to be more like 8 to 10 parts, as opposed to the original 6 to 8 I was hoping, but there you go. At least we're finally getting somewhere with the Lancewain action.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy, I'm still absolutely blown away by all the attention and reaction. I love you all, please stay safe out there. <3

The weeks pass, slow and uneventful.

It’s a relief, honestly. After everything that’s happened in the past month, Gawain really needs the chance to breathe. He spends most of his time with Lancelot acting as the Ashman’s protective shadow, though Kaze is valuable if begrudging help on that account. She steps in whenever Gawain needs to leave for any extended amount of time—whenever Nimue wishes to speak to him, as well as when he needs to bathe, and those times when he just needs to be alone, just for a while. 

He’s not used to having a companion all through the day as well as during the night. His parents are long deceased, and he’s been un-joined all his life, never even courted anyone for any significant length of time. Not that Lancelot is a bother—he mostly sleeps that first week, kept sedated by Evaine’s tonics so that he rests peacefully. But even once he begins to come around, his stitches removed, his internal and head wounds no longer making him ill, the Ashman is quiet, taking everything in with silent interest. He eats what he’s given, washes in the basins by the stables when instructed, and dresses in the spare tunics and breeches Gawain scrounges up for him. 

They both continue to sleep in Evaine’s lean-to, for lack of anywhere else to settle in. They pin up a heavy hide across one side of the opening, shielding the mattress (and Lancelot) from view of passersby. Once Lancelot is doing better and not sleeping during the day, they pick the mattress up in the mornings and lean it against the back wall, keeping it out of Evaine’s way, then simply lay it down again once they return in the evenings. 

At first, Gawain sleeps on the ground with his back propped up against the wood, but after a few days, a sleepy Lancelot rolls toward him and murmurs, _“you shouldn’t be sleeping like that.”_ Gawain argues, tells him he’s fine, that Lancelot needs the space to stretch out and rest. Except his back aches from slumping over all night, and his ass hurts from sitting on the hard ground…

He ends up giving in, lying down on the very edge of the mattress with his back turned toward the other fey. He falls asleep much quicker than expected, warm under the furs and lulled by Lancelot’s heavy sleep breathing. 

He wakes the next morning much later than usual, a warm back pressed against his chest and his arm slung over someone’s waist. He’s still in that comfortable place between awareness and sleep, and it takes him longer than he’d like to admit to realize it’s Lancelot curled up in his arms. 

He scrambles up, blinking down at Lancelot in alarm, but the other fey is still asleep, huffing out those little half-snores he makes when he’s sleeping deeply. And Gawain just looks at him for a moment, at pale scarred skin and his head of soft messy curls, before pulling up the furs to cover him and keep him warm.

It goes on as such for some time. Gawain tries his best to stay on his side, always starts the night on the very edge facing away from the other fey. But the mattress is small, and his body seems to have other ideas about where it should be. Most mornings he wakes holding Lancelot, and when he doesn’t, he wakes back-to-back with Lancelot, their bodies curled against each other like two half-moons. 

Lancelot is always still, his breathing deep and even, and Gawain always gets up before the other fey wakes… until Gawain is roused in the early hours of the morning by furious noises and movement.

Lancelot is thrashing and crying out while Gawain holds him, and Gawain releases him immediately, rolling away to give him space. Lancelot continues struggling, though, and when Gawain sits up, looking down, he realizes the Ashman’s still asleep. Having a night terror. 

Gawain reaches out, touches the other fey’s scarred shoulder, squeezing gently. “Lancelot,” he says. “Lancelot, wake up. You’re dreaming.”

Lancelot wakes violent, rolling toward Gawain with a surprisingly dexterous right hook. Gawain barely dodges it and only because he was expecting the Ashman to lash out. Lancelot follows, lunging for him, hands outstretched trying to wrap around his throat, but those crying eyes are wide and panicked, somewhere else far away. Gawain fights him off as lightly as possible, mostly just blocking the attacks, until he’s left with Lancelot sitting up across from him and staring with a clear gaze, breath coming hard and fast.

“It’s alright,” Gawain tells him, quiet. “It was a night terror.”

Lancelot scrambles up, all his usual grace suddenly disappeared, and he stumbles out shirtless and barefoot straight through the hanging animal skin, their makeshift wall, and into the barely there dawn light. As the skin flaps shut behind him, Gawain hurries up as well. The last thing they need is one of the nighttime guards to see Lancelot floundering around in a panic—that’s liable to cause a whole _different_ kind of panic. 

“Lancelot,” Gawain hisses, following him out of the lean-to, and finds him just a few steps away bent over at the waist, hands braced on his knees. Gawain hears the other fey gag, sees the muscles along the other fey’s sides straining, shoulders shaking. Gawain rushes up, grabs Lancelot’s hair to pull it out of his face, but Lancelot isn’t bringing anything up, only dry-heaving. Whatever horror had gripped his dreams just left him with a sour stomach.

There’s a guard already standing a few steps away watching the whole display. Gawain curses under his breath when he notices, and Lancelot flinches at the sound of Gawain’s voice, trying to pull away. The reaction makes Gawain frown, and he tries to calm the Ashman, gentling his voice and his hands.

“It’s alright,” Gawain murmurs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I heard struggling,” the guard addresses Gawain. Gawain can’t say he knows the fey-man. They’ve spoken occasionally, but it’s always been brief and strictly about guard duty. Still, Gawain recognizes his face. He’s one of the feyfolk Gawain doesn’t have a name for. His canines are fanged just like Kaze, but he also has two short bone-like horns curling up from his hairline—and while he has facial markings similar to Kaze, his are near pearlescent, contrasting beautifully against his brown skin. 

His is a face that stands out in the crowd, stunning in his uniqueness.

“Is he ill?” the guard asks, taking a step away from Lancelot as he watches the Ashman cough.

“No,” Gawain assures. “He was gripped with a night terror. I believe the panic turned his stomach.”

“Ah, I know the feeling,” the guard says, stepping a bit closer once assured Lancelot’s not contagious. He happens to position himself across from Gawain, on Lancelot’s other side, just where he can see all the grotesque scarring over Lancelot’s back. His eyes rake over the marred skin, though he doesn’t seem surprised.

Gawain’s always tried to take Lancelot to bathe when there were the fewest people around, because the Ashman is so incredibly shy about being nude in front of the others. Not Gawain so much—Gawain’s already seen it all while they were traveling on the road. Gawain kept him on his feet while he emptied his bladder, helped him squat behind a tree then stand again when he was too sick to balance himself, and of course bathed next to him in the creek. And now Lancelot lets Gawain help wash his back and make sure the arrow-wound stays clean and uninfected…

But he tries to hide his body around others—most especially his genitalia—when there’s nothing disrespectful or shameful about being nude around the baths. Gawain’s tried to explain this to him, but Lancelot doesn’t seem to agree. 

Still, the baths generally have at least one other person around no matter when Gawain takes Lancelot to bathe. For the most part, no one blinks an eye at him—aside from the first suspicious glance when Gawain first shows up with the former executioner—but seeing another fey naked and bathing at the baths isn’t exactly notable. 

It’s the scars Gawain has noticed a few people ogling, both the whip marks on his back and the keloid scarring on his thigh. The reaction is usually frowning confusion, and blessedly, Lancelot has yet to notice since they’re usually looking from behind his back. Gawain always just stares, steel in his gaze, until the gawker notices him and looks away.

Which is what he does now, stares at the guard over Lancelot’s back while Lancelot spits onto the ground. The guard meets his eye and nods, a silent recognition, and then asks, “Can I do anything?”

Lancelot straightens up, nostrils flaring as he pants for breath. Gawain reaches over, lays his hand on Lancelot’s shoulder—Lancelot’s shudders, but doesn’t pull away this time. “Maybe get him some water? Or tea?” Gawain suggests. “All we have inside is wine.”

The guard nods and turns away, even while he says over his shoulder, “Some wine might calm his nerves.”

And well… Gawain turns his eyes to Lancelot, asks, “Do you want me to pour you some wine? It’s that sweet fruit wine, I don’t…”

Lancelot’s already shaking his head before Gawain finishes the sentence. “I just need some space,” he says, then unsteadily walks away, turning his back on Gawain. He doesn’t go far, just paces around on the green where Gawain can still see him, so Gawain gives him his space, lets him collect himself and breathe. 

The guard returns while Lancelot is still pacing, and he comes over to stand next to Gawain. He motions to the cup in his hands, says, “Ginger water.”

Gawain nods and thanks him, then, “I’m sorry, I’ve seen you many times, but I don’t know your name.”

“It’s Vaekar,” the guard replies, inclining his head. His black hair spills around his horns with the motion.

Silence settles between them. Gawain watches Lancelot sit down on the ground several meters away, burying his face between his knees. While the Ashman had had a few nightmares out on the road, this one seems different. Worse. Gawain’s heart hurts for him.

Vaekar looks over at Gawain, obviously wondering what to do and probably just curious in general. Gawain sighs.

“Here, let me,” Gawain says, motioning for Vaekar to give him the cup of water. “I’ll bring it to him when he’s ready for it.”

Vaekar hands him the water, still silent, but he doesn’t leave. There’s a tension in the air between them. Gawain wonders if someone has told him to stay in this area overnight, to keep watch over the Green Knight and his pet murderer. He doesn’t think Nimue would do such a thing—while she may not trust Lancelot, she trusts Gawain and recognizes Lancelot’s inherent worth to their cause. And Gawain’s been in a few meetings amongst the provisional leadership, enough be fairly certain Guinevere has no issue with Lancelot. 

Arthur is another story, though, as well as many _many_ other fey in the camp. If Nimue or Guinevere were feeling pressure from the others to do something, to ensure the camp’s safety…

Gawain thinks about asking Vaekar, but before he can, Vaekar says, “There are rumors about him.”

Gawain sighs. “Ask what you want to ask.”

“I know it’s not my business,” Vaekar says. “But they speak as though he’s a predator, when from what I’ve seen he seems more like cornered prey.”

Gawain glances out of the corner of his eye, asks, “You’ve been watching?”

Vaekar nods and says, “I’ve been asked as much.”

“By whom?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Vaekar answers, and Gawain bristles, anger crawling up his spine.

“You do know who I am, right?” Gawain says. “You _are_ at liberty to answer my questions.”

Vaekar swallows, eyes drawn back out across the green to where Lancelot has unfolded himself from the ground and is standing. “It was the man-blood raider queen,” Vaekar finally says. “I confirmed after with our Queen, and she said to do as I was told, so I have. But…”

“I’ll speak to them,” Gawain interrupts, firm.

“I don’t want to be punished, forced out of the camp,” Vaekar says. “They’ll know I told you.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Gawain assures him.

Vaekar is silent for a few moments before he murmurs, “Well, I suppose if you’re able to keep _him_ in camp..." He gestures to Lancelot, who’s once again pacing. “You’ll be able to keep anyone in camp.”

Gawain chuckles, says, “Well, I wouldn’t go _that_ far.”

Vaekar grins, soft and crooked. Then, as Lancelot begins making his way back over, he murmurs, “I do my best to respect your privacy. I’d never look or listen in on you both. Please know that much.”

Gawain nods and thanks him, but then busies himself caring for Lancelot, giving the Ashman his water and ushering him back to bed. He doesn’t realize the possible insinuation behind Vaekar’s words until much later, until after they’ve both settled down again in bed—not able to find sleep, but at least lying with their eyes closed, resting.

 _I’d never look or listen in on you both._ A gentle, tactful way of saying, _Don’t be afraid you’re being watched or listened to while having sex—specifically while having sex with your damaged, ex-Paladin, Ashfolk lover._

Gawain sighs, knuckling at an eye, and wonders how long it’s going to take for that particular rumor to bite him in the ass.

~*~

Three days. It takes precisely three days.

He waits to bring up the entire issue until the next meeting with leadership—three days—and then waits until the very end, after all other issues have been argued over. He speaks privately with Nimue while Guinevere is otherwise occupied with Arthur, seemingly her new right hand. Nimue smiles up at him when he approaches her, sweet and far too young for all this, and Gawain sighs.

“It’s recently come to my attention that I’m being watched,” he says.

Her smile immediately falls, and a very long silence settles. Incriminatingly long. Finally, after Gawain clears his throat, Nimue says, “It’s not you that’s being watched, Gawain.”

“Nimue…” he says, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He had an entire speech planned, but it suddenly seems pointless to start pontificating, _I’m the Green Knight, do you not think I’m capable of watching_ one _Paladin turncoat?_

“Is everything alright?” Pym asks, walking over to stand next to Nimue. And of course, Gawain should have realized he’d only have about two seconds before Pym inserted herself into the conversation. 

“Aye,” Gawain says, though even he can hear the exasperation in his own voice.

Pym frowns, while Nimue tells her, “He knows we have guards on his Monk.”

“I told you he would notice,” Pym says, while Gawain says simultaneously…

“His name is Lancelot.” He’s really unwilling to play these games. “And he’s _my_ charge, as it was ordered when I first brought him here. I’ve seen to him, seen that he’s…”

“And your judgment regarding him is compromised,” Pym interrupts, though her voice is kind, gentle. “We needed an outside observer.”

“Compromised?” Gawain asks, scowling. “Pardon me, but…”

“Gawain, stop. It’s alright.” Nimue holds her hands in front of herself, placating. “I may not understand it, but I don’t blame you. None of us do. I can’t imagine what you both went through when it was just you, he, and Squirrel, all on your own…”

Gawain just stares at her. 

Pyms says, “I’ll admit, I can understand how you might find him attractive. His eyes are very blue.”

“Excuse me?” Gawain bites out, wondering if they can somehow read his mind. Because of everything that Gawain loves about Lancelot’s body—and there is a lot that Gawain loves... Those sharp cheekbones, that deep hoarse voice, the way he carries himself, all lean and lithe muscle, even the way his soft prick lays a little to the left over his tight, tidy balls. 

But Gawain’s favorite by far are those deep blue, crying eyes. 

“We know you’re bedding him,” Pym speaks up.

“And it’s alright. Like I said, I am not blaming you for your feelings…” Nimue hurriedly adds.

“ _What?!_ ” Gawain snaps, interrupting.

Nimue plows on. “…but you must understand how that sort of closeness may affect your judgment.”

“I am _not_ bedding him,” Gawain snarls, only realizing after Guinevere and Arthur both look over how loud he’d been. He sighs, ready for the ground to swallow him up just so he doesn’t have to deal with this. “You do understand what Lancelot is going through, right? He…”

Except it’s not Gawain’s business to say, nor does he even know the extent of it. He’s experienced the nightmares, of course, but he’s also looked over during the day to find Lancelot staring out into the distance at nothing, expression blank, eyes vacant. It’s the sort of look Gawain’s seen on his brothers and sisters who’ve witnessed the unspeakable, who’ve watched their family members burn or who’ve seen their friend cut down by a Paladin’s blade…

Gawain never thought a Paladin could feel as such, could experience that sort of deep emotional pain. But then Lancelot is not human, nor did he choose the Church’s mission of his own volition. Who knows what he sees when he stares out into the void? Vivid memories of death, most likely—it’s what haunts most everyone here—but whose? The man-bloods who fought by his side, or the fey who fell to his own blade?

Perhaps both?

“Eh, is everything alright here?” Guinevere asks, walking up to them, Arthur on her heels. 

Gawain scowls at her. “You can call off your dogs,” he tells her, not bothering to address her by any royal title. “I have the situation under control.”

Guinevere’s brows rise at his tone. Arthur goes to step in front of her, all pulled up to his full height, shoulders thrown back, trying to look threatening. He’s preempted by Guinevere tossing her hand out in front of him and pushing him back. “The situation?” Guinevere asks.

“He knows we have eyes on the Monk,” Nimue says.

“ _Lancelot_ ,” Gawain grits out.

“Ah,” Guinevere says with a nod. “I thought it was best to have an extra set of eyes on him, considering the relationship between you both.”

“There is no relationship,” Gawain says, irritable. 

Even though the statement isn’t entirely true. Perhaps it’s not friendship—the fact that Lancelot is technically in Gawain’s custody precludes any sort of real friendship, at least in Gawain’s mind. But there is trust there, a connection shared from mutual understanding, and the physical attraction Gawain feels… 

He’s stopped trying to fight it, just acknowledges it for what it is. Accepts the fact that there’s that coil of heat in his gut when Lancelot strips off his shirt at the end of the day, all that sweet pale skin on display. Accepts the fact that his pulse kicks up a notch whenever he manages to pull that melancholy, crooked grin from the other fey. 

“No relationship…” Pym says, frowning.

“No,” Gawain says. “You think I would take advantage of him in this situation? Is that what you think of me?”

“No, no, of course not,” Nimue says, seeming shocked by his words. 

“I didn’t mean to suggest you were taking advantage. You seem an honorable man,” Guinevere says. “But I’ve seen the way you look at each other. And you are quite literally sharing a bed. You’ll excuse me for drawing assumptions…”

“It’s where we were taken upon our arrival,” Gawain explains, gesturing vaguely at their general surroundings. “Housing is limited, and we’re only getting more people by the week. I didn’t want to make an issue of it when we both have a place to sleep—yes, there’s only the one mattress, but it is fine.”

The others share a look that Gawain doesn’t like. Eventually, Arthur says, “We keep bringing up the housing issue, then never making any decisions.”

“There’s no point in building more permanent housing…” Guinevere begins. 

“We’re going to be here for a while yet,” Nimue says, glancing at Gawain for backup.

And it’s the same argument they’ve had a million times. Guinevere wants to gather all the able fighters as soon as possible and take the fight to the enemy. And while Gawain understands her ambition and impatience, they don’t have the numbers or weapons yet. Giving up what little protection they have here is madness.

“We could at least set up more tents,” Pym suggests. “Winter will be here soon enough. The people sleeping in lean-to’s or under overhangs, they’ll need the enclosed space to stay warm.”

Guinevere’s silent for a moment, before she begrudgingly nods. “Aye, you’re right,” she admits. “You have tanners who can begin work, yes?”

“I’ll speak to them,” Nimue says.

“We’ll need numbers,” Pym says, clearly already planning.

“Then it’s settled,” Guinevere decides.

“What of Lancelot?” Gawain hurriedly asks. “You can call off your guard. He’s no threat.”

Guinevere frowns. “I’ll leave him be during the day, because I agree. I do not believe he is a threat,” she finally agrees. “But I want someone nearby at night. You cannot keep watch while you sleep.”

 _And he doesn’t_ need _to be watched at night, because he is_ also _sleeping,_ Gawain thinks, but he doesn’t say as much. He can compromise in order to keep the peace. “I appreciate that,” he says.

It gets left there. Gawain decides he’ll give it a month, two at the most. If they’re still being watched overnight at that point, he’ll put his foot down.

Until then, he’ll hold his tongue.

~*~

A large, private tent gets set up a few paces away from Nimue’s. 

It’s made from thick hide and supported by sturdy wooden beams. The inside is warm, insulated, cozy but plenty big enough for two beds. Gawain scrounges up another mattress, more linens, and another soft thick fur, and then drags a protesting Lancelot along with him.

“I’ll be fine where I am,” Lancelot tells him.

“It’s coming fall. The nights are already growing cold,” Gawain says. “You’ll freeze in the winter.”

“I’ll find more furs,” Lancelot argues.

“Or you’ll come with me and sleep inside a warm tent,” Gawain says.

“The hospitality is appreciated, but not needed,” Lancelot says.

Gawain sighs. “Stop arguing and just accept the kindness,” he says. “It’s not as though you do not work. You are pulling your own weight here, you deserve a comfortable place to lay your head.”

Which is all true. Since Lancelot has been well, Gawain’s had him up doing all sorts of things. Turns out the other fey knows how to do more than just wield a blade. He can sew well enough to mend clothing, and he can cook a tiny bit, at least enough to roast some meat and vegetables. He’s _very_ good with leatherwork, though, can repair the saddles and bridles and harnesses with ease. Plus, he’s thorough and meticulous when it comes to caring for the animals. 

The old tusk man in charge of the livestock warms up to Lancelot slowly, no doubt glad for some skilled help. Gawain starts leaving the Ashman at the stables more often than not, letting the old man put him to work and keep an eye on him while Gawain sees to other business. He feels safe enough doing so—Lancelot’s already proven himself a thousand times over, and while Gawain doubts any of the other farmhands would try anything in broad daylight, there are still objects around the paddocks Lancelot could use to defend himself if needed.

People are so concerned about the Ashman’s weapons, insisting that he not have a sword or bow. Gawain doesn't bother pointing out that Lancelot can probably take down ten armed men with a decent pitchfork. 

Still… “They don’t want you staying here alone, anyway,” Gawain points out. “So just come with me.”

“They?” Lancelot asks, the first time he’s ever questioned his situation.

His eyes are very blue when Gawain meets his gaze. “Lancelot, you know that I trust you. I would put a sword in your hand and send you out to fight if it were my decision alone,” Gawain says. “But I am not the only one here with a voice.”

“I understand that,” Lancelot says. Then, heartbreakingly, “I am doing all I can to prove myself, I swear. I know I am a stain on your reputation…”

“Do not say that,” Gawain interrupts, tone more forceful than he means. He tries to watch himself when he speaks to Lancelot, because he knows a harsh voice can startle the other fey—and indeed, Lancelot’s eyes widen, that stoic mask dropping for a split second before he collects himself. Gawain takes a breath, gentles his tone, and speaks again. “You are no _stain_ upon me. When I see you here, loyal to our cause, I am _proud_. I meant what I said that day—you will be our greatest warrior.”

Lancelot’s cheeks flush, and he murmurs, “You have too much confidence in me.”

“No,” Gawain says. “I only know what is truth.”

The conversation gets left at that, and when Gawain moves from Evaine’s lean-to into the new tent, Lancelot moves along with him.

They have a lot more space in the new tent even with the two mattresses, something that Gawain is eternally grateful for. Gawain gets them both wooden trunks to stow what few belongings they’ve accumulated since their arrival—mostly just clothing, toiletries, and a wineskin or two. Plus, he knows just where he’ll put an armor stand and weapon’s rack later, once the others won’t panic over there being weapons where Lancelot sleeps.

The actual sleeping, though…

He’s grown used to sleeping next to Lancelot. It’s been a month now of Lancelot in his arms or Lancelot pressed against his back, and while he never thought he would miss the too-hot feel of skin during the night, or the way the mattress shifts slightly whenever Lancelot stirs in his sleep, Gawain does.

Gawain can only doze during the nights, sleeping lightly and waking often, so it’s no surprise when Lancelot’s nightmare wakes him.

It’s not like the ones Gawain’s seen in the past, not loud and violent. Lancelot isn’t yelling or thrashing, isn’t fighting against something Gawain can’t see, but Gawain does see him trembling, his shoulders shaking. And the hitching, wet sound of his breathing is obvious—the Ashman is crying.

At first, Gawain thinks he’s awake and upset for some reason, maybe scared, haunted and overwhelmed by memories. Though when Gawain murmurs the other fey’s name, rolling over and standing from his mattress, Lancelot doesn’t react, doesn’t so much as tense or flinch. And Gawain realizes…

“Lancelot, wake up,” he murmurs, taking the four steps across the tent to the other mattress. He squats down, lays a hand on Lancelot’s shoulder, and readies himself for Lancelot to strike out. 

But the Ashman just shudders awake, eyes wide and wet and red-rimmed. Gawain squeezes his shoulder, comforting, and Lancelot closes his eyes again, choking back belly-deep sobs that rip Gawain apart.

“It’s alright. You’re safe,” Gawain tells him, gentle. “It was only a nightmare.”

Lancelot doesn’t reply, just keeps sucking in shaky breaths, jaw working as he grinds his teeth. Gawain sighs, gentling his grip and petting the other fey’s shoulder. His skin is so soft even with the scarring, like silk over unyielding muscle. Even with the situation—perhaps _because_ of the situation—Gawain wants to lean down and kiss, press his lips where his hand is. Show some care and affection in the face of such pain.

As it is, he just asks, “Can I get you something? We have some coriander water from last night. And wine, of course.”

“No, but thank you,” Lancelot murmurs, pushing himself up to sit on the edge of the mattress. He wipes at his eyes, the watery tears swept away but the ashen ones lingering. Gawain’s gotten used to this by now—gotten used him touching his face, rubbing sweat away or scratching an itch, and black marks lingering. There’d been a strange surprise about it at the beginning that Gawain can’t begin to explain, some expectation that they’d smear and be wiped off…

Like a human with dirt on his cheeks.

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to wake you,” Lancelot says, quiet.

“I was already awake,” Gawain tells him. Lancelot gives him a shrewd look at that, frowning. Gawain sighs, still squatting by the bed, and asks, “Do you wish to talk about your dream?”

“They’re not your burden to share,” Lancelot answers immediately, voice shaky. He wipes his eyes again, fidgeting a bit, and Gawain half expects him to get up and leave. Walk around outside like he’d done the last time he’d had a nightmare.

When he doesn’t, Gawain says, “Perhaps not. But I would gladly listen to a friend unburden himself.”

And there it is…

It’s somehow easier to admit in the dark of night, no one else around but just the two of them, emotions raw and flayed open. And it’s obvious, is it not? Exactly how many here know him as more than just the Green Knight? Know him as _Gawain_? Considering his secret they both share, it’s arguable that no one knows him as well as Lancelot.

And conversely, who else here knows Lancelot as more than just the Weeping Monk? No one, save Squirrel and perhaps Evaine.

Lancelot doesn’t reply, though, just stares for a long moment before nodding once. “I’ll lie back down and—," a pause, a hitched breath, “—try to sleep.’

“Alright,” Gawain agrees, and watches as Lancelot reclines back in the bed. 

The Ashman rolls over so his back is to Gawain, then pulls the covers around himself. Gawain stays by the bed until he’s settled in before standing with a sigh. He’s not prepared for Lancelot to suddenly reach a hand back and call, “Wait!”

Gawain looks down at the hand extended out, palm up, grabbing for him even though he is out of reach. Lancelot isn’t looking back over his shoulder, is staring in front of himself at the side of the tent. Or perhaps his eyes are closed—Gawain can’t see his face. But he understands well enough from the gesture and the tone of voice.

And maybe if he wasn’t so caught and twisted up in this fey-man, he’d turn and go back to his own mattress. Because this is not a good idea, not really, and he knows it deep down in his gut. As it is, though, he just eases himself down behind Lancelot, lying down like he always used to—at the edge of the mattress, back facing the other fey. 

Except Lancelot grabs hold of his wrist and jerks. And gods, the Ashman is strong, a lot stronger than that lean, lithe body would suggest. It’s something Gawain already knew, he has the scars to prove it, but it still catches him off-guard. He ends up pulled over onto his back and halfway on top of Lancelot, grunting as his shoulder is wrenched backward. 

There’s silence for a moment, and when Gawain turns his head, he finds Lancelot looking at him with a stunned expression. It makes him chuckle despite it all, and he asks, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Lancelot answers. Then, “I apologize.”

“It’s alright,” Gawain says and goes to roll back over, but Lancelot makes a noise of protest, reaching back for his arm again. Gawain stills before he’s yanked around again.

“No,” Lancelot murmurs after a moment. “Like-like before. In the night. Please…”

It takes Gawain longer than he’d like to admit to realize what Lancelot means. “Oh,” he says, staring at the tent’s ceiling. “I didn’t realize you knew.” Which is a stupid things to say, or in hindsight, even really to suspect. “I apologize for…”

“Just, please,” Lancelot interrupts, not looking back over his shoulder. 

Gawain swallows back his words. Lancelot’s not asking for an apology or an explanation. He’s just asking for comfort. So Gawain rolls toward him, and when Lancelot reaches back, Gawain lets the other pull his arm across his side.

He settles down the way he’s been wanting, the way he’s been missing—his chest pressed to Lancelot’s back, his arm slung around Lancelot’s waist, Lancelot’s dark blond curls tickling his face. He sighs, heart warm, and closes his eyes. 

“Good night, Brother,” Gawain murmurs. “May the Hidden gift you better dreams.”

Lancelot doesn’t reply, not verbally, but he gently squeezes Gawain’s wrist in silent recognition. 

Gawain barely resists kissing the back of his neck.


	6. Part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so so much for your comments and kudos!! <3

As the last few milder days of fall bleed into the beginnings of a cold winter, peace still holds firm in their corner of a coastal settlement.

A few scouts come back occasionally with news. They encounter a few abandoned campsites in the surrounding areas, sometimes manage to track down the prior inhabitants and sometimes not. They bring back any refugees they find, give them a home, food and shelter and safety, in exchange for able-bodied work. 

They come across stragglers from both Uther’s and Cumber’s army, soldiers separated from the rest of the forces during whatever battles transpired. Gawain’s still unclear on exactly what happened, especially in regards to Uther’s troops. Stories vary from person to person even within their own camp, not to mention the information they get from these straggler soldiers.

Reaction from the soldiers vary. Some are very clearly deserters, or at least feel no burning desire to find their way back. Gawain speaks to a few at Guinevere’s behest, and their battle fatigue is so obvious and severe, he’s quite sure they would freeze or flee if put back in the field. In fact, it’s probably how they came to be split from the rest of their army in the first place.

But other soldiers are openly hostile and attack on site. A few of their scouts sustain injuries in small skirmishes, but none are seriously wounded, and thankfully there are no fatalities. Guinevere’s orders are to bring all enemy soldiers back to camp, but some of their scouts are forced to kill out in the field. Guinevere takes no issue, though—says that when it comes down to life and death, she always wants her own people alive, and leave out the rest.

Her own people, which apparently includes the feyfolk—or at least the fey scouts that have been bringing her information. Gawain doesn’t quite know what to make of this, but he ends up thinking about it every time he meets with her and speaks with her. She treats him like an expert warrior, an honorable commander, someone to be respected. She frequently asks for his and Kaze’s opinions on matters she’s unfamiliar with— _‘You may know more about this than I, Knight. I’ve spent most of my life on the sea, after all.’_

He doesn’t want to respect her, some man-blood declaring herself Queen, but he’s finding himself more and more appreciative of her.

The scouts find a small group of Paladins stationed at the closest human settlement, a farming town further inland. They’re settled in, holding mass and preaching to the populace—most likely recruiting, Lancelot informs Gawain when Gawain tells him as much. They’re too close, though, in Gawain’s practiced opinion. It’s just a matter of time before they become a problem.

While Lancelot is not formally invited to the meetings with Nimue and Guinevere, Gawain still takes all information about the Paladins and the Church to him. Who better to give their opinion than the one who traveled with enemy, who knows their efforts and routines? Lancelot has given him some invaluable inside information—a basic rundown of what exactly the Church knew about their kind, what other cities they’d ransacked, and what plans they’d had before Lancelot had run and Carden had been killed and everything had fallen apart…

Lancelot still refuses to believe that Carden has been killed, despite what Gawain tells him. He even brings Lancelot to Nimue, has Nimue recite the same story to him she’d told Gawain, and while Lancelot listens to her with a passive blank expression, Gawain can tell the Ashman thinks he’s being lied to. Or perhaps more accurately, he thinks that Nimue and Gawain are wrong, though why he’s so caught up in this belief, whether it’s hope or fear keeping him from being convinced, Gawain’s not sure. 

One thing is for sure, though—the more time that passes, the longer they inactively loiter along the coast, the more nervous Gawain gets.

It’s not that Gawain thinks they should be gathering an army. They’re still better off where they are, especially with the number of civilians that have settled in by now. There are too many people without the skill or means to fight—healers and farmers and craftsmen, those people who’ve barely held a weapon much less wielded one, as well as the children and the elderly, the sick and disabled, pregnant and nursing mothers…

They can’t drag the entire group along with them on a march, nor will Gawain leave them behind to fend for themselves. 

What they need to do is send a small group out. Gawain could go himself, take a handful of their best fighters—of course, Lancelot. Gawain’s never going out again without Lancelot, not now that he knows what the Ashman is capable of, not after he experienced that tracking firsthand. 

As much as he knows he saved Lancelot's life out on the road, he’s just as sure Lancelot saved his. If they hadn’t had Lancelot’s nose and tracking skills, they wouldn’t have made it safely through.

But Lancelot is out of practice. They both are. They need to train, which requires weapons, and maybe a couple of months ago Gawain would still have been cautious about putting a sword in Lancelot’s hand, but he’s not any longer. It is just the other fey in camp he worries over—not what they think of him, he is past that, but he doesn’t want them to fear Lancelot any more than they already do.

Gawain starts taking him to duel in the evenings once the sun has set, after the camp has begun to quiet down and most people have retired to their tents. Gawain lights a few torches, enough to see by, and sets them in stands along the edge of the forest. And then, with dull steel swords, they practice.

Lancelot holds back at first, doing more dodging and acrobatics than actual dueling. Gawain lets him get away with it for a few days, figuring that the other fey has his reasons. After all, the athletics are good for Lancelot, honing his body and improving his dexterity.

But also, seeing Lancelot standing across from him with a sword in his hand gives Gawain continued flashes of adrenaline, and not the good sort. The spark of innate fear the first time Lancelot does truly fight him is unexpected—even though in hindsight, Gawain thinks he maybe _should_ have been expecting it, all things considered.

It doesn’t occur to Gawain that Lancelot may be experiencing the same feelings until Gawain bests him. When he pushes Lancelot to the ground and settles his foot on his chest, Lancelot’s eyes go wide and panicked—then the Ashman reacts in such a quick flurry of motion that Gawain is on his back wheezing, Lancelot’s blade at his throat, before he even knows what hit him. 

The ensuing tussle is purely instinctive and anxiety-fueled. It only lasts a few seconds, but memories of ice-cold eyes and a blade through his gut replace the sight of the panicked ash-stained gaze above him, and for that brief moment, he’s fighting for his life against a Paladin.

Things are strange for a while after that. They stop dueling, of course, and for all intents and purposes, they stop talking. 

They’re civil. Gawain is kind to Lancelot, and Lancelot is polite to Gawain, but there is a strange tension that hasn’t been there for months. Not since those first few days out in the forest, and arguably not even then, Lancelot having been too ill to care about any sort of social friction. Gawain suddenly realizes how close they’ve become over the months—how much he’s come to enjoy ending his day with Lancelot at his side, supper and drinks and eventually quiet conversation in their tent, perhaps some cards or dice just for the fun of it, or perhaps just sitting together in the stillness, away from it all…

Lancelot is still right there next to him, but somehow Gawain misses him.

A couple of weeks later, and Lancelot murmurs after supper, with the tone of a man taking a step off a cliff, “I don’t think I have ever apologized for what I’ve done.”

Gawain glances at him, confused. “You’ve apologized many times.”

“No,” Lancelot tells him. “Not to you. Not for what I did to _you_.”

Gawain shakes his head, even though he’s not sure. He can’t remember if the words were ever said—many things have been said and many things have been left unsaid, expressed in action only. One thing Lancelot has said is that he regrets, and that he would go back and change things if he could. Gawain knows he is sorry.

“I killed you,” Lancelot says, quiet. There is something about his tone Gawain can’t put a name to—it makes his chest hurt. “I put a blade through you. It is a miracle you are alive.”

“It’s in the past. I’ve already forgiven you,” Gawain says.

Lancelot grunts, frowning, before he says, “And I apologize for how I behaved during our dueling. I was not honorable.”

Finally addressing it—it is like a weight Gawain hadn’t known he’d been carrying lifted off his shoulders. “Neither was I honorable,” Gawain says. “I was not expecting to have such a… _sharp_ reaction to facing you.”

“I had a similar reaction,” Lancelot says. “But that does not excuse my actions. I know how to control my fears and fight through the emotion.”

Gawain’s heart hurts for him. “Yes, but our situation is a bit abnormal. We’ve gone from the end of each other’s blades, to friends, to the end of each other’s training blades,” he points out.

“I suppose,” Lancelot relents.

“We will try to duel again once you feel ready,” Gawain decides. “And we will duel with honor. No strikes to the head, no strikes below the belt. And additionally, once one of us has been bested, the winner backs away so as not to cause distress—at least until we’re more accustomed to dueling one another.”

He reaches his hand out to Lancelot. Lancelot looks at it, then asks, “You wish to duel me again?”

“Of course,” Gawain says, brows furrowed. “We both need the practice.”

Lancelot is silent for a long moment before he nods and reaches out to clasp Gawain’s hand. “We’ll duel with honor,” he agrees, shaking on it. 

“Aye,” Gawain agrees, happy that seems to be settled.

But then Lancelot asks, quiet and uneasy, “And we’re… still friends?”

Gawain’s heart breaks apart. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Lancelot lifts a shoulder, shrugging, and gives him that shy, crooked grin. And gods, but the Ashman is beautiful—Gawain shouldn’t think it, shouldn’t feel it…

But that small grin sets his belly to swooping every damn time.

~*~

They continue to sleep in the same bed.

It’s a horrible idea, nothing good will come of it, especially since Lancelot seems completely unaware of the sexual associations with sharing a bed—or at least, if he is aware, he’s very good at maintaining innocent appearances. Or perhaps he’s lying to himself. Gawain doesn’t know which option is most likely. 

Gawain is all but positive Lancelot has never bedded anyone. His lack of simple knowledge is glaring and almost adorable at times. Little dirty jokes and innuendos fly right over his head. And while he picks up on the cleaner insinuations like ‘you know what’ and ‘doing it’, he has no clue about the raunchier ones.

He overhears another fey say ‘playing at in-and-out’ one day, and then asks Gawain what that means. Gawain lies and tells him he doesn’t know.

Gawain wonders over it all sometimes. He knows that the Red Paladins aren’t necessarily as pious as they preach. He’s heard enough tales from his brothers and sisters, from those who were lucky enough to get away but still unlucky enough to meet a Paladin’s cruelty. Everything from a lingering inappropriate touch to assault and rape. It sickens Gawain, even more so that it would it if was one of their own. If it was one of their own, the offender would be taken into the woods, gutted, and left there. But the Paladins proclaim themselves followers of some holy deity, all while calling the fey demonic and immoral. The hypocrisy is painful.

But Lancelot seems to have little to no sexual inclination, even if he _is_ perfectly capable. They sleep in the same bed, and sometimes they end up sprawling rather inelegantly against each other. Gawain has felt Lancelot often enough in the night, prick stiff in his braes while he sleeps, and there’s been one wet dream… or at least one that Gawain was awake for.

It was barely anything—consisted of Lancelot pulling out of Gawain’s arms to lie on his belly, then Lancelot humping the mattress twice and coming with a quiet little grunt. 

Regardless, it’d almost murdered Gawain.

So yes, the Ashman is capable. Gawain has never seen him look at anyone else, though, never seen his gaze linger on a beautiful fey-woman. And there are plenty around, unjoined young women of all kinds and shapes and sizes, yet he shows no interest. Gawain wonders if it is because none of the women show any interest in him, all still too wary of the danger he poses, so Lancelot simply isn’t looking at what he knows he can’t have.

Not that that mindset keeps most people from looking, but then Lancelot isn’t most people.

December eventually comes, and the winter solstice falls. The festival is small—they’re careful not to waste what resources they have, but they keep the fires burning and the alcohol flowing long into early hours of the morning. There are smiles and laughter and dancing, a hopeful excitement spreading in this time of temporary peace, the sort that encourages both young love and shameless pleasure. A few couples have already snuck off into hidden corners—and some into not so hidden corners…

Gawain notices Lancelot staring before he actually notices the couple. There are two Skyfolk men just barely visible through the trees, one leaning back against a tree trunk and the other on his knees. Gawain can’t tell who they are from the distance, but it’s very clear what they’re doing.

He looks back to Lancelot, who’s still staring intently, and gives the other’s boot a little tap with his own. Lancelot startles, turning wild eyes on Gawain. His face goes beet red immediately, and his gaze darts back to the trees once before he settles his stare on Gawain right shoulder. 

And while Lancelot is already mortified and seemingly chastised, Gawain still gently tells him, “Don’t stare. That’s private.”

A beat of tense silence, then Lancelot murmurs, “They’re not in private. We can see them.”

Gawain barely keeps himself from laughing. “They most likely don’t realize we can. Privacy can be hard to come by here, I’m sure you’ve noticed. I’m surprised you’ve never happened across an intimate couple before now.”

Lancelot is quiet for a long moment before he murmurs, “I apologize.”

“It’s alright. You didn’t know,” Gawain assures him.

Lancelot nods, silent, and it gets left there. Various friends and acquaintances continue to come by, wishing them happy solstice and plying them with alcohol. The next time Gawain glances over, the two men who’d been in the forest are gone.

Evaine comes over not long after, her daughter Jaine slung over her hip and babbling happily. The little girl had developed a liking for Lancelot near immediately, while the Ashman was still laid up injured and ill in Evaine’s lean-to, and she rushes over to him now as soon as Evaine puts her down. 

She’s gotten a new toy, a little soft raggedy doll, and she shows it off to Lancelot proudly. Lancelot makes a proper fuss over it, as though it’s the most impressive thing he’s ever seen, and then holds her with gentle hands when she climbs into his lap. Evaine sits on Gawain’s right, Lancelot to Gawain’s left, and engages Gawain in conversation.

Evaine used to keep such a close eye on Jaine whenever they were with Lancelot. Now, pays them hardly any mind while Lancelot bounces the little girl on his knee and plays with her hair.

He’ll make a good father someday, Gawain thinks. It’s something he’s thought many times before watching the Ashman with Squirrel. He shows strength to the boy even when Gawain knows he’s struggling, always has a moment to listen or help or teach no matter how busy or exhausted—he _makes_ time for Squirrel if Squirrel asks for him. But watching Lancelot with Jaine drives it home all the more. He is so soft and sweet with her, and those hands that have caused so much pain and destruction handle her little body so very gently.

Gawain has wondered often if Lancelot has memories of being Jaine’s age, or more specifically, if he has memories of being with his birth parents at Jaine’s age. Lancelot hasn’t told Gawain very much about his past, only short whispered confessions during the bad nights when neither of them get much sleep, mostly just confessions of guilt— _‘I do not know how I was so naïve as to be manipulated for so long. Perhaps my blood did not make me a demon, but I fear I allowed myself to become one at the humans’ behest…’_

But he’s never told Gawain the details of his childhood. Gawain can make some assumptions, of course. That he was taken quite young, young enough to not have much knowledge of fey culture. And Gawain’s quite sure that his parents were killed—in fact, he suspects this may have happened in front of him. Lancelot rarely speaks during his nightmares, only yells nonsensically or sobs quietly, but he has called out for his mother a couple of times. It’s something Gawain will never forget, that desperate horrified cry of _‘Mama,_ _Mama!’_

So Lancelot clearly remembers, but what and how much Gawain doesn’t know. Though the way he holds Jaine makes Gawain think he has memories of being lovingly held by his own parents. And the way he plays with Jaine, talks to her dolls and plays-pretend with her wooden horses, it makes Gawain think his parents must have played with him in similar ways. Gawain’s never asked him, and Lancelot’s never offered up the information—but the paternal behavior seems to come so naturally to the Ashman, and Gawain can’t imagine he learned it from anyone in the Church.

Jaine grows tired eventually, curls up against Lancelot’s chest and sticks her thumb in her mouth. Lancelot gently takes her thumb away, gathering both her hands up in one of his own and holding them to his chest. She fusses at him a bit, just some unhappy whining, but Lancelot rocks her and hums to her, a tune Gawain doesn’t recognize. She settles, tucking herself further into the warmth of Lancelot’s furry winter cloak, no doubt seconds from sleep.

Gawain doesn’t realize he’s staring until Evaine lays her hand on his forearm and murmurs, “I’m happy for you both, by the way.”

“Oh, uhm, we…” Gawain begins, but then doesn’t know what to say. Lancelot speaks to her more often than Gawain, is arguably somewhat of her friend. It makes him wonder if she’s said something to Lancelot, or if Lancelot has said something to her. Something that Gawain doesn’t know about. He gathers himself, though, and says, “Thank you, but the rumors are not true, if that’s what you mean.”

Evaine blinks at him a few times, before she tactfully says, “Well, you deserve some happiness, both of you.”

Gawain chuckles, says, “We all deserve a little happiness at this point.”

She smiles at him, raising her cup of wine in a toast. “To happiness,” she announces.

Gawain finds himself returning her smile and raising his own cup. “I’ll drink to that.”

He turns to Lancelot, then, but the other fey is staring into the campfire with that thousand-yard stare, lost somewhere in his own mind. Gawain leans over, bumps shoulders with him, and Lancelot startles a bit, looking over. Jaine grumps, hand curling in the fur of his cloak, but she doesn’t truly wake. Gawain smiles at the sight, at the two of them together, and raises his cup. “Drink to a bit of happiness?”

Lancelot gives him that small, crooked grin before reaching for his cup set at his feet. “Happiness,” he agrees, quiet so as not to disturb the girl. He clinks cups with Gawain, then reaches across to do the same with Evaine. 

They drink and settle into the quiet. Evaine takes Jaine from Lancelot eventually, the little girl long faded with the late hour, and both he and Gawain bid them goodnight. When Gawain looks back to Lancelot, then other fey is staring into the fire again, obviously lost in thought. 

Gawain leaves him be, just finishes his wine and pours himself another. The silence between them is comfortable, and Gawain wonders when it became that they could sit with each other as such, easy and still, no words needed to fill the quiet.

~*~

It’s in the early hours of the morning when they both retire to their tent. 

Gawain is somewhere between tipsy and drunk, lightheaded and a little floaty. He’s pretty sure Lancelot is in the same way, or at least he’s smiling far too easily for his normal stoic self. His happiness is making butterflies swarm in Gawain’s stomach and bubbles burst in his chest.

Gawain lights a few candles in their tent, just enough to see by, so as to undress and clean their teeth and ready themselves for bed. He sits on his own bed, unslept in for near two months now, and begins to pull his boots off. When he glances up, he finds Lancelot sitting on their bed and staring at the floor. He’s no longer smiling, instead frowning rather pensively.

“Are you alright?” Gawain asks, wondering if the other is feeling ill. He’s had more alcohol than usual—perhaps Gawain should get the chamber pot…

Lancelot looks up, fidgeting with his hands, and asks, “May I ask a question?”

“Of course,” Gawain says, frowning. “You know you can.”

“I mean—," Lancelot says, trailing off, hunting for the words. “May I speak plainly—about a personal subject?”

“Yes, of course,” Gawain tells him, not really sure what he means.

Lancelot frowns again, eyes drifting to the candles on the far table, before he says, “Those men, in the woods…”

Gawain’s stomach summersaults.

“They were performing… _fellatio_ ,” Lancelot finishes, sounding as scandalized as an uptight Moonwing grandmother. Gawain barely keeps it together.

“Yes,” Gawain agrees, not bothering to point out that one was performing and one was receiving. After all, he doesn’t really think that’s Lancelot’s point, though he’s not really sure what Lancelot’s point _is_.

There’s a long stretch of silence, then Lancelot asks, very seriously, “Why?”

 _Ancestors, help me_ , Gawain thinks. _I’m not drunk enough for this._ “Uhh…” Gawain says, still sitting on his bed, one boot on and one boot off, then answers with the first thing that comes to mind. “It feels good.”

Lancelot just stares at him. Gawain takes a breath, tries to gather his thoughts. _I’ll show you how good it feels_ , Gawain thinks, then squeezes his eyes shut at _that_ thought. 

Maybe he’s _too_ drunk for this.

“I apologize,” Lancelot murmurs, apparently mistaking his expression for displeasure.

“Do not apologize, I am happy to explain,” Gawain tells him, reassuring.

“It is just that—it is a sin to…” Lancelot trails off, and Gawain dreads what he’s about to say. But he finishes with, “To spill seed outside a woman’s womb.”

Gawain laughs, he can’t help it. He’s heard a lot of the Church’s ridiculous rules and teachings over the years, both in passing and from Lancelot, but this is the first time he’s heard of _this_ particular one. Lancelot frowns at him, unimpressed, but Gawain says, “Lancelot, that is an impossible law to follow. You realize that, right?”

Lancelot looks away again, cheeks going noticeably pink. Gawain can feel his own face going hot. He almost wants to put a stop to the conversation there, but it’s been a long slow road of assimilating Lancelot into their culture and philosophies, something that’s still an ongoing feat. Gawain doesn’t want to leave him feeling as though something his Church and Paladin captors told him is truth.

“Even if a man chooses not to have relations,” Gawain says, hoping Lancelot gets that Gawain is referring to _him_. “He will spend in his sleep in order to balance the humors.”

“No. That is from the Incubus that visits me at times, during the night,” Lancelot informs him, matter-of-fact, though he still doesn’t meet Gawain’s eye.

“What?” Gawain asks, completely lost.

“The Incubus,” Lancelot repeats. 

“I don’t… I’ve never heard that word, I don’t understand.”

“It is a demon that comes in the night,” Lancelot tells him. “Tempts men to commit—sins of the flesh.”

“Gods, Lancelot. There is no such thing.” Gawain sighs, rubbing at his face. “Is this something your Paladins preach? Because I do not know why they would. They must… _realize_. They are all men, are they not?”

Lancelot nods, answers, “Yes.”

Gawain shakes his head. It’s just so ridiculous. “If there is one thing I have learned from you, it is that these man-bloods enjoy shaming people even more than killing.”

Lancelot is silent for a moment, still looking away, brows furrowed. But then the corner of his lips quirk into a smile, some of his drunken good humor rising to the surface as he meets Gawain’s gaze. “There is a verse in the scripture, _‘do not judge, or you too will be judged’_ ,” Lancelot says. “I feel they disregard this lesson.”

Gawain laughs aloud. “I does indeed sound as though they could learn from their own teachings.”

Lancelot nods in agreement, still grinning, though his gaze drifts to the ground between his feet. Gawain lets the silence fall between them, finishes pulling off his boots and changes out of his heavy outerwear. Lancelot does the same, begins readying himself for bed.

And it’s as Gawain looks back at him, at that lithe body slipping underneath the blankets and furs, that he wonders if he should give him some assurance. Because he is an old soul in so many ways, hardened by years of atrocities and experienced beyond his years in the ways of war—but he’s so very young and naïve in other ways, desperate for encouragement and prone to uncertainty.

“You know that I do not judge you,” Gawain says. Lancelot turns his head, looks at him from their bed.

“I do not understand your kindness,” Lancelot says. “I fear I never will.”

Gawain doesn’t know what to say to that, never knows what to say when Lancelot expresses that kind of sentiment. He just gets into the bed alongside the Ashman, covering himself with the blankets, and settles on, “Well, perhaps you’ll at least get used to it.”

Lancelot _hmm_ ’s at him, then turns on his side, his back to Gawain. Offering himself up for Gawain to curl around and hold, or perhaps requesting Gawain to draw him close and nestle in—Gawain can never decide which it is.

Regardless, Gawain pulls him close and drapes his arm over his side, their combined body-heat keeping everything warm and cozy under the blankets. He hears Lancelot yawn, feels his ribcage expand and contract, and smiles sleepily to himself.

~*~

It isn’t until later, weeks later, than he discovers the details of what an Incubus is.

It’s not that he talks about Lancelot behind the other fey’s back. At least that’s what Gawain tells himself. But Evaine has come to know Lancelot fairly well over their months in the camp, and she also has her own experiences with the Church. She’d fled to safety at an abbey soon after her husband’s death— _Jaine was so small, I’d given birth only months earlier, we couldn’t keep wandering through the forests_ —and stayed for a year before slowly heading North. 

So he sometimes speaks to her about the things that Lancelot has said, and she tells him of the things she saw in the abbey. He’s learned things from her, things that make some of what Lancelot says make more sense. And it’s comforting to have someone listen to him, someone who understands. 

Though when he tells her about Lancelot’s belief in this Incubus, she frowns at him and says, “He said it is specifically an Incubus?”

“Yes,” Gawain answers. “Why?”

“They generally believe that it is the Succubus that plagues men—a female demon, that is, one that slips into their subconscious and causes them to sin, or some such,” she says, chuckling to herself as she works over her mixing pot.

“As opposed to…?” Gawain asks, though he thinks he already has the picture.

“The Incubus is supposedly the counterpart, or what have you. A male demon, causing corruption and hysteria amongst the womenfolk,” she says.

“So he thinks a _male_ sex demon is what haunts him,” Gawain says, mind slowly coming around to the implications.

“In short, yes,” she answers. “I can’t say that I’m surprised, all things considered.”

And that brings Gawain up short. “Pardon?” he asks.

She glances at Gawain, raises her eyebrows. “Considering the Paladins’ attitude toward same-sex relations, and the fact that you’re bedding the man—I must say…”

“What? No, I told you…” Gawain interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose. He is so tired of this, and even more so, he fears what will happen when this inevitably gets brought up to Lancelot. “I have not touched him. I would not take advantage of him like such.”

She’s silent for a long moment, scrutinizing him, then she says, “You really aren’t sleeping together, are you?”

“No, we aren’t!” Gawain snaps, surprised by how frustrated he sounds. “He just—he needs a friend, needs support. He doesn’t need—anything else.”

Evaine nods in understanding, looking back down into her mixing bowl. Gawain feels contrite for a moment, afraid he’s been too stern, but then she says, “I don’t think you would be hurting him in any way.”

Gawain sighs. “I don’t believe he even has those sort of wants.”

Evaine actually laughs at him. “He believes he’s been touched by an Incubus. He clearly feels desire—perhaps he fears it, or does not fully understand it, but he feels it.”

And well, Gawain can’t really argue with that, but, “I’ve never seen his gaze linger on another.”

“Look behind yourself sometime,” Evaine says, grinning at him. “His gaze lingers, but he only has eyes for you.”

Gawain doesn’t know what to say to that. It feels as though his heart is about to beat out of his chest.

Evaine must be able to read it all on his face, though, because she smiles gently, says, “And you look at him like my husband used to look at me. Namely as though you wish to worship the ground under his feet.”

Gawain swallows. “I know that he has committed unforgivable acts…” he starts.

“Don’t,” she interrupts. “You don’t have to explain yourself, not to me. They all told me I’d burn for running off with a fey-man, but I didn’t care. I was so madly in love. But even knowing what I know now, even with all the pain, I wouldn’t go back, I wouldn’t change my mind.”

“Love is… strange and horrible,” Gawain decides, shaking his head

“No. It’s strange, maybe, but it is wonderful,” she tells him. Then, when Gawain doesn’t reply, she says, “I meant what I said. I don’t think you would be hurting him in any way.”

He ends up thinking of her words later that evening, once he and Lancelot have both supped and retired to their tent. He’s taking off his heavy fur cloak, shivering a bit in his lighter layers, and thinks, _Look behind yourself sometime._ And so he turns toward their bed, where he knows Lancelot has sat down, and finds the other fey watching him.

But it’s not a lustful or wicked stare, doesn’t speak of pleasurable thoughts. It is just—passive, but in a way that his plain expressions usually are not. It is soft, almost kind, as though whatever is going on behind his eyes is not painful or upsetting, but rather calm and happy.

As though looking at Gawain is giving him a sense of peace, of contentment.

Gawain almost launches himself across the tent and into their bed—this time in a completely intimate fashion, entwined together under the blankets, lips and tongues and teeth…

But then the moment passes, and Lancelot gives him a lopsided grin. Gawain takes a breath and smiles back.

It feels somehow different that night when Gawain lies down behind him and gathers him up in his arms. 

He wonders if this is what love is.


	7. Part 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've made it to the climax! I hope you enjoy, all your comments and kudos are so very appreciated <3

The first snowfall coats the ground in white at the end of January—blessedly late in the season, having given them extra time to stockpile food and supplies. They have plenty of dried meats and fish, everything saved from their own hunters and fishermen, as well as stores of flour and herbs, linens and bandages and steel instruments, all of the things they’d traded with the merchant vessels to acquire. 

They won’t have to worry over the winter, even if it turns out to be long and harsh and cold.

At least, they won’t have to worry about staying fed and warm and healthy—safe is another thing entirely.

The snow is starting to melt, the normal hustle beginning again around the camp. Scouts report that the Paladins at the nearby farming village have departed, though they have no information about where they went or why they left—they only check on the area and find the Paladins gone. Guinevere and even Nimue aren’t concerned about this. In fact, they seem to think it is a good thing that they’ve left, are no longer nearby. 

Gawain is not so optimistic. Neither is Lancelot.

“They would not have left unless they'd received orders to do so,” Lancelot tells him, quiet in their tent, away from other ears.

“Who would have given them the order?” Gawain asks.

“Father Carden,” Lancelot says easily.

Gawain frowns, taking a breath, and says softly, “Lancelot, I swear to you, the man is dead. I believe what Nimue says.”

“Then… then whomever has taken the reins from the Vatican,” Lancelot says. “There was a man sent to oversee Father in those last days, an Abbot from Rome. Abbot Wicklow. It is possible he has filled Father’s shoes—if what you say of his death is true.”

Gawain doesn’t comment on that last bit, just nods, asks, “And this man would be in charge of commanding the Red Paladins now?”

“I cannot know for sure, nor would I call him anything of a commandant,” Lancelot answers. Then, after a brief pause, frowning down at his hands, “He is the one who would not allow me to release Percival. I tried to explain to him that he was just a young boy, that he could do us no harm, but he ordered the Trinity Guard to cut me down anyway.”

Gawain sighs, anger at the Church clenching up in his chest. “You did not kill him along with the Guard?”

Lancelot smirks a bit, glancing up to meet Gawain’s eyes. “The coward ran from me, even while I was near dead,” he says. “It’s why I say I would not call him a commander.”

Gawain scoffs. “Indeed.”

“Regardless, the fact that they have pulled out is not good,” Lancelot says. “It means they have plans, and they’ll be on the move again. They may not know we’re here yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

And so they train… Gawain and Kaze work with their fighters during the day, and they train anyone new who’s eager to pick up a sword and defend their own. 

As for he and Lancelot, it quickly becomes too cold to duel after nightfall. They take to going at the edge of dark, making sure to get as far away as possible from the evening hustle and bustle of camp while still staying safe. The hard and sharp nighttime chill is always just beginning to set in, and so they bundle up in wool and furs before heading out with their training swords.

Lancelot has a new fur-lined cloak—one of their seamstresses makes it for him unprompted, apparently tired of seeing him in that ratty grey-black thing he wore near every day. When Gawain goes to personally thank her, she rolls her eyes at him and says, _He needed something for the winter, can’t have your lover out freezing in the cold._

Gawain doesn’t even bother correcting her.

Lancelot looks lovely in it. Distractingly lovely. The fur lining the edges and inside is a light grey, thick and soft, keeping his face cast in shadows. The strong line of his jaw and his pretty pink lips are teased from underneath the hood, and with all the new ideas in Gawain’s head, the notion that his desires may not be completely one-sided, he can’t help but look. Can’t help but imagine what it might be like to taste those sweet lips. Can’t help but wonder how Lancelot might kiss him back—sweet and shy, clumsy with inexperience, desperate with repressed desire…

Blessedly, it takes Lancelot a bit to get used to fighting in the heavier cloak, so they end up equally distracted. Turns out that Lancelot can’t cartwheel in the heavy cloak—the first time he tries, he ends up losing his balance and missing the landing, sprawling on his front with a winded grunt. He doesn’t move for several seconds after, doesn’t go to leverage himself up, and Gawain’s heart ends up in his throat as he rushes over. But it turns out that the Ashman is fine, only a bruised ego, and so Gawain helps him brush off and pull himself together, and they get back to it.

Lancelot’s since learned to flash kick and barrel role and butterfly kick in the winter wear, cloak flying around him, while Gawain continues to struggle with his feelings. They’re at least more accustomed to dueling as friends now. Gawain no longer feels that sharp stab of alarm when facing Lancelot’s blade, nor does Lancelot get that look of madness in his eye whenever Gawain strikes close—though the looks that Lancelot _does_ get may drive Gawain to madness before it’s all said and done.

Lancelot enjoys their dueling, says as much with actual words, and Gawain can count on one hand the number of things Lancelot has actually verbally said he enjoys. But Gawain would know anyway, the way Lancelot grins and smirks and downright _leers_ at Gawain while they fight. It sets Gawain’s heart to racing and his blood to rushing. His cock even occasionally rises to half-mast in his britches, though he’s blessedly covered in enough layers that it doesn’t show. But he hasn’t had a physical reaction in a nonsexual situation like such in years, not since he was in his late teens, early twenties. It’s privately humiliating—he doesn’t know what’s become of his sanity.

He blames all this distraction as the reason he doesn’t notice Guinevere is there watching until Lancelot suddenly backs away from him, appearing upset in that distinct closed-off way he has, where you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know him. When Gawain follows the other’s gaze, he finds Guinevere standing some ways away, the man-blood Queen flanked by two of her raidermen. He glances back at Lancelot, who’s still looking nervous, but then Guinevere calls, “Well, don’t stop on my account!”

“Pardon?” Gawain calls back.

Guinevere motions idly with one of her hands for Gawain and Lancelot to get back to it. “I was told the two Knights were battling,” she says. “I had to come see for myself.”

“I’m no knight,” Lancelot mumbles, though it’s so quiet Gawain is sure Guinevere can’t hear him. 

“Truly, do not stop,” she tells them. “You are a thrill to watch.”

Gawain looks to Lancelot and raises a brow. A silent question. _Do you wish to continue, give a demonstration, a bit of a show?_

Lancelot’s expression is flat, seemingly unsure. Gawain waits, wondering if he should assure the other that they don’t have to—it’s not their job to entertain the man-blood Queen. They can simply refuse to duel. But then Lancelot tosses his sword from his right hand to his left hand and back again, a small creeping its way onto his face. 

He leaps at Gawain with a butterfly kick before Gawain’s even prepared for him to move. But Gawain’s gotten used to this, gotten used to the way Lancelot strikes like a viper, so by now Gawain’s almost expecting the unexpected—at least, as much as one person can.

He dodges Lancelot, turns in time to see Lancelot follow through on the kick then twist to face him again. And there’s that leer again, his eyes bright and his teeth bared, as though Lancelot is both impressed and irritated by Gawain’s skill.

“Come now! You’ve tried that move on me at least five times now,” Gawain says, laughing.

“Sometimes I can still catch you unawares,” Lancelot says before rushing him again. Gawain parries, and their blades sing when they connect.

Lancelot eventually bests him, though not for any lack of effort on Gawain’s part. There is an almost added pressure knowing that they’re being observed, and while he would never admit to having a bit of pride about himself and his abilities, well… the truth remains. 

Though there’s no denying that Lancelot is a bit egotistic himself. Once Gawain has yielded, the Ashman practically preens like a peacock. It makes Gawain laugh.

“You are insufferable,” Gawain says in jest, shaking his head. Lancelot grins back at him, shy and playful.

“Alright, Knight. It is my turn,” Guinevere announces, stepping up to them.

“Ah,” Gawain says. He turns to Lancelot, says, “Give her your blade, Friend…”

“No, I’ll duel him,” Guinevere interrupts, gesturing to Lancelot. Then, when neither Gawain nor Lancelot move, “He was the victor, was he not?”

“Aye,” Gawain agrees, inclining his head, while Lancelot tells her…

“I’m not a knight.”

“Of course you are,” Guinevere says, taking Gawain’s blade when he hands it to her. “A knight by association at least.”

“I don’t think it works that way, your Grace,” one of her raider companions comments, but Guinevere either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care.

“Alright,” she says, swinging the blunt training blade in front of herself a few times, getting a feel for it. “Let us duel.”

Gawain backs away to give them room. Lancelot asks, uncertain, “Do you wish for me to… warn you, your Grace? Count to three?”

In lieu of answering, Guinevere rushes him, sword coming down toward his shoulder, but the Ashman’s catlike reflexes kick in and save him. It’s stunning, the way he knocks her blade aside with his own and barrel rolls out of the way all in one smooth motion. When he sets himself upright and faces her again, the snarl on his face makes Gawain chuckle.

Lancelot looks almost appalled by the audacity, like he can’t believe she’s done something so daring. 

Guinevere seems aware of the attitude. “You think I am some delicate flower?” she shouts at him, brandishing her sword. “I captain a ship full of fierce and rowdy men, and you think I cannot hold my own against _you_?”

Lancelot pulls himself up to his full height, his shoulders thrown back and his head high. “Very well,” he answers. He twirls his sword in his right hand in that showy way he has, a way that has absolutely no functional use but does look impressive, threatening. Gawain smirks.

They’re lovely together, equally matched, as though dancing with blades. Guinevere strikes at him, and Lancelot twirls out of the way, comes at her from behind. But Guinevere is not so easily fooled—she blocks from over her shoulder and pushes him back, whirling to face him with a laugh. 

Gawain hopes he and Lancelot are even half as beautiful together. 

It goes on for so long that Gawain begins to wonder if he should step in, declare it a stalemate. But then Guinevere gets knocked down, Lancelot standing over her with his blade at her throat. “Do you yield, your Grace?” Lancelot asks. And his words might be polite, but Gawain can hear the attitude in his tone.

At least, the Ashman has an arrogance about him until Guinevere reaches to her belt and pulls a knife. She brings it up between his legs and lays it gently against the crotch of his breeches, smirking up at him all the while. “I do not yield,” she says, while Lancelot rocks up onto his tiptoes. Then, “You men should learn not to lord over your victims. You put yourselves in the most precarious of positions.”

Lancelot tosses his training sword aside and announces, “I yield.”

She chuckles, tucking her knife back into her belt, and then accepts Lancelot’s hand and pulls herself to her feet. “Ah, what a match!” she declares, clapping Lancelot on the shoulder. “You fight like a demon.”

Gawain winces at that, at the wording, even if he knows what she means to say. She notices his expression, though, and obviously mistakes it for something else…

“Ah, do not worry, I would not geld him,” she tells Gawain, winking. She walks to Gawain’s side and looks back to Lancelot, where the other fey is taking his time pulling himself together—adjusting his cloak and hood, picking up his sword from the ground, scratching at his nose. 

Trying to find his ego again. 

“Not a man so fine,” Guinevere adds. Gawain glances at her out of the corner of his eye, something suspiciously like jealousy curling in his chest. Then, she says, “I must ask, does he only enjoy the company of other men? Or has he lain with women as well?”

It’s the last thing Gawain is expecting to hear, and he just gapes at her for a moment before admitting, “I do not know.”

“You’ve never spoken to him about it?” she asks, confused.

He searches for something to say that is not, _‘Of course not! It’s none of my damn business, nor is it yours!’_ He settles on, “The Churchmen take vows of chastity.”

“Ah, I understand,” she says. Then, “I assume you’d be averse to sharing?”

Gawain thinks he’s going to be sick. “That implies he is something in my possession to be shared.”

“Men seem to view their wives as possessions,” Guinevere points out. “Though if…”

Gawain laughs and interrupts, “If a fey-man treated his wife as his possession, she would not be his wife for very long.”

Guinevere smiles, answers, “Aye, I like this.”

“Regardless,” Gawain says. “He’s not my partner. I have no say over what he does.”

Lancelot chooses then to come meandering over, somehow both stoic and bashful at the same time. Guinevere looks him over, before telling Gawain, “I think that perhaps I spoke too quickly. It would not be right for me to do as I asked.”

Lancelot frowns, seemingly confused, while Gawain says, “I agree, my Lady.”

She nods with authority, as though that’s all settled. But then she crosses her arms over her chest, frowning at Lancelot, and asks, “Why have you not been attending our strategy meetings?”

“Uhm…” Lancelot says.

“I don’t believe he was ever formally invited,” Gawain points out.

“Well, that’s been a horrible oversight on my part,” she says, shaking her head. “You fought with the Paladins for years, did you not?”

Lancelot is quiet for a long moment, as is usual whenever his past is brought up, before he picks out the words he wants and says, “Yes, your Grace. They used me as their demon soldier.”

“Lancelot,” Gawain murmurs, somewhere between scolding and heartbroken. Lancelot’s gaze snaps over to him before drifting back to Guinevere.

As for Guinevere, her face goes through a series of emotions—confusion and sadness and anger before seeming to settle on a mixture of all three. Then, she says, “Well, they are as much our enemy here as the two usurpers. I would assume you have inside knowledge of these Paladins. You could be the difference between victory and defeat in this battle.”

Lancelot glances to Gawain, uncertain, before he answers, “I’ve told Gawain what I know.”

She looks between the two of them, frowning. Gawain assures her, “I’ve relayed everything to the rest of you.”

Guinevere nods, still seeming dubious, and decides, “I want you there when we all meet. You’ll be able to give your experienced input and answer questions.”

It’s an order, not a request. Still, Lancelot says, “Yes, your Grace. I’ll attend.”

“Good. Then I will see you there,” she says. She shakes hands with Lancelot and then with Gawain, then turns away, gesturing to her raidermen to follow. “Enjoy your evening, gentlemen,” she calls in parting as she leaves.

Gawain’s quiet at he watches her walk away. Beside him, Lancelot takes a breath, lets it out, then takes another breath and says, “Are you quite sure I will be welcome there?”

“You mean at this meeting?” Gawain clarifies. Then, when Lancelot nods, “Yes, of course.”

Except that he’s not entirely sure. Gawain will be by Lancelot’s side to offer support, and he’s learned well how to throw his authority around when it comes to the ex-Paladin. His title means something to most people, after all. 

But most importantly, if Guinevere wants Lancelot there, then surely his presence won’t be questioned.

At least, that’s what Gawain tells himself.

~*~

The day comes quicker than Gawain was anticipating. It seems a blink of an eye, and Gawain’s walking alongside Lancelot on the docks, headed to Guinevere’s ship. 

Lancelot is nervous and scared, that much is obvious. There is such an anxious energy thrumming in Lancelot that Gawain swears he can actually feel. The salty sea air is cold, wind whipping up around them, but it feels like the space around Lancelot is warm, heated by the strength of his anxiety. 

Of course, his expression is closed off, as impassive as ever—he’s doing all he can to keep that wall up between himself and the rest of the world. 

Gawain wants to tell him that it’s alright, that no matter what happens it will all be okay, but he doesn’t think that will make much of a difference in the long run.

Blessedly, there is no meltdown when Gawain steps into the war room with Lancelot at his side. The Ashman gets a few side eyes from people as Gawain moves them both to his own usual spot. No one says anything to him, aside from Guinevere who genially greets them both.

Gawain doesn’t even realize how proprietary he’s being—his hand on Lancelot’s lower back as he steers them around the table, following close enough behind to smell the clean rose-water scent of Lancelot’s hair. Such a familiar scent after so long sleeping in the same bed, curled up at his back, his hair tickling Gawain’s nose…

Gods, but he’s so attached. It’s strange thing to think they were ever apart, much less at odds. He forgets sometimes during those quiet nights alone in their tent, just drinking and relaxing, that they ever fought one another. But then he undresses and can see the big gnarled scar on his belly, ugly and undeniable, and it’s like being dropped into freezing water. 

The memories are all at once vivid and so far away. Sometimes when he sleeps, he dreams of green leaves and plants and vines growing out of the gaping wound in his stomach and overtaking him, burying him in the dirt. He can feel the fear, the constriction and restriction, but for some reason he never struggles.

The dream always leaves him off kilter in the mornings, much like Lancelot’s nightmares leave him withdrawn and nervous in the mornings. 

Lancelot stays quiet throughout the majority of the meeting, _mmm_ ’ing and nodding occasionally but otherwise offering nothing. Gawain honestly can’t tell if he has nothing to add or if he isn’t comfortable speaking up. Most of what they discuss are their plans for winter, their supply stocks and which merchant ships will still be sailing. Though the usual argument of whether they should stay where they are or push out does eventually come up, and Gawain isn’t all that surprised when Guinevere drags Lancelot into the middle of it.

“Sir Lancelot,” Guinevere says. “What is your opinion? Do you feel we are safe lingering here? Or do you feel we should be taking the fight to the enemy?”

All eyes are suddenly on Lancelot. The Ashman fidgets, glancing first at Gawain then at Nimue, before asking, “You wish my honest opinion, your Grace?”

“It’s why I asked you here,” Guinevere answers.

And so Lancelot nods, and says, “We are vulnerable where we are. A handful of warriors skilled in subterfuge could kill raze our food stores and murder many before we would be capable of creating a defense—most especially if they came during the night.”

One of the raidermen flanking Guinevere’s chair leans over to whisper in her ear. “You can speak to the room,” Gawain tells him.

She waves them both off, though, and asks Lancelot, “So then you suggest we should move out?”

“We can’t move from here,” Nimue interrupts. And she’s just parroting Gawain’s own words—probably the reason she’s staring at Gawain with a look of betrayal. “It would be suicide.”

“That is… is not what I meant. I only meant there are steps we can be taking to better secure our position here,” Lancelot clarifies, shaking his head. “And Gawain has told me that we are unaware of the enemies’ locations. Is this true?”

“I’m afraid it is,” Guinevere says. “We can assume Uther has retreated back to his castle, but otherwise…”

“If he still lives,” Arthur comments.

“We would know by now if he’d been killed,” Kaze says. “That sort of news would spread quickly.”

“Fair enough,” Arthur replies with a nod.

“But we do not know for sure,” Lancelot steps in. “And as for the rest, we have no idea of their location, yes?”

The people around the table nod, and Guinevere answers, “Aye.”

“Then we need to find them or they’ll find us first, if they haven’t already,” Lancelot says.

“They can’t know where we are, or they would have attacked us already,” Nimue says, frowning at Lancelot.

Lancelot’s expression stays carefully blank, but the way he blinks at her and doesn’t reply says worlds in itself. Gawain has to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing.

“There are ways we can further reinforce the camp,” Kaze speaks up. “More barricades, for one, and perhaps some watchtowers.”

“Watchtowers would be excellent,” Lancelot says. “Put a couple of archers up where they can see well…”

“And I can take a few men out,” Gawain says. “We’ll head toward Pendragon Castle. See what we see.”

Reliably, Lancelot says, “I’ll go with you.”

But surprisingly, Kaze says, “And I’ll go with you both.”

When both he and Lancelot crane their necks around to stare at her, Kaze just raises her brows at them.

“And you can take a couple of my men,” Guinevere says. Then gesturing to her right, then her left, “You can take Joel and Thom.”

Joel looks excited about the prospect of an adventure. Thom looks less than delighted.

“We’ll pack up this evening, set out tomorrow at dawn,” Gawain decides.

“Then it’s settled,” Guinevere says, clapping her hands. “Thank you, Sir Lancelot. We’re grateful for your input.”

“You’re welcome, you Grace,” Lancelot answers.

Guinevere smiles back at him, wide and dazzling, and Gawain thinks back to their conversation days ago. _‘I assume you’d be averse to sharing?’_

Yes, Gawain thinks. Sure, there’s nothing to share, but he’s already very averse to sharing.

~*~

“I’m glad you chose to accompany us,” Gawain tells Kaze the next morning riding next her. 

She glances at him from the corner of her eye. “As if I could leave you men to handle this on your own…”

“Alright, alright…” Gawain chuckles. Then, “Truly, though, thank you.”

She fully looks at him then, a long beat of silence, then looks ahead again at Lancelot’s back. “I _do_ respect your judgement,” she says. “And anyway, if you’ll remember, _someone_ watched him in the beginning when you couldn’t. We did speak, I didn’t stand staring at him in silence.”

Gawain nods, says, “He’s a good man…”

“I can hear your both,” Lancelot interrupts from in front of them, not bothering to look back over his shoulder. Gawain frowns, feeling his face go hot. He’d thought Lancelot was far enough ahead that they wouldn’t be overheard.

“And I know, it’s so distressing when people say nice things about you,” Kaze snipes back with attitude. 

Lancelot turns his head a bit as though to glance over his shoulder, but he doesn’t make eye contact with either of them. Eventually, Gawain hears him grunt—though in acknowledgement, in acceptance, or in grouchiness, Gawain can’t tell.

Gawain grins.

The exchange seems to be indicative of their entire dynamic. Lancelot says something, and Kaze good-naturedly sasses him. Lancelot doesn’t seem perturbed by it, but rather seems to be quietly enjoying it. He grumps and grumbles at her, but that small crooked grin creeps on his face a few times that evening when they make camp. 

As for the two raiders, they mostly keep to themselves. Joel is at least eager, checking in with Gawain often enough and helping to make camp in the evenings. Thom, though, does little and says even less. Kaze yells at the man a few times, meets resistance, then comes back to Gawain with complaints. But Gawain finds he can’t really be bothered.

As far as he’s concerned, the only people of consequence here are himself, Kaze, and Lancelot. If the two man-bloods make it through and back, great. If not? Well, they should have been more careful, more skilled. Gawain is no babysitter.

And so they head toward Castle Pendragon, sticking to the road nearest to the coast. Two days and two nights go by uneventfully, the most exciting thing being a large bear in their path, but then on the third day…

“There are other menfolk nearby,” Lancelot says softly, reining Goliath to a halt and looking back to Gawain. “Quite a few.”

“How many is ‘quite a few’?” Thom asks, sounding panicked, far too loud. Kaze shushes him.

“A half-dozen, a dozen, it’s difficult to tell,” Lancelot says, his eyes drifting from Gawain to the two raiders behind him. 

Gawain curses under his breath. Lancelot had warned him this may happen. _I’m used to seeking out fey even in the presence of other fey, but I’m not accustomed to seeking out humans in the presence of other humans,_ he’d said. _I may not be as skilled in this, may not know how many or how close. Especially if the raiders will be accompanying us…_

“How close?” Gawain asks.

“Not close enough to be heard,” Lancelot answers him.

“That’s ambiguous,” Kaze says, already dismounting her horse. Gawain follows her lead.

“On foot from here,” Gawain says, motioning with his hand toward the trees. 

They tie their horses and move out, close and quiet. Lancelot leads, occasionally tapping at his nose under his hood and then directing them in another direction, staying silent but still getting his point across. 

Five, ten, or perhaps fifteen minutes pass, and they end up crouched at the edge of an encampment. It’s large, tents sprawling across the field, dots of red obvious against the green grass. “ _Paladins_ ,” Kaze hisses with disdain.

“Trinity Guardsmen, too,” Lancelot whispers, nudging Gawain and then motioning to soldiers in black. 

“Anyone else?” Gawain asks, but Lancelot shakes his head.

“Those are Vatican tents, but they may just be for the Guardsmen,” Lancelot says. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anyone of import is here.”

“Alright, well…” Gawain begins, keeping his voice low and quiet while he thinks. There are far too many of them down there to fight—it would be five against a hundred, maybe even more than. They should go ahead and take this information and turn back…

Lancelot abruptly tenses, quickly pulling upright. 

“What?” Gawain asks, adrenaline spiking at his sudden movement. 

“Someone is here,” Lancelot murmurs, drawing his blade.

Gawain stands, frowning down into the encampment—could they know?—while Kaze stands as well, drawing her dual blades and looking around herself. Gawain doesn’t pay any mind to the two raidermen until Kaze suddenly snaps, “Joel, where are you going?”

Gawain looks behind himself to see the man-blood wandering off, his blade drawn, obviously looking for a fight. Gawain groans to himself, just because he’s going to have to explain this to Guinevere if they make it back. _Your idiot raider-human wandered off and died_ probably won’t be a satisfactory answer as to what happened. 

And then, unbelievably, Lancelot goes to slide past Gawain and follow after him. Gawain grabs hold of the Ashman by the back of his hood, gets a handful of his hair along with the material, yanks him back and growls, “What on this green earth do you think you’re doing?”

“He’s going to get himself killed,” Lancelot answers.

“Let him,” Gawain says. “You follow him? You both die.”

They stare at each other in stubborn silence for a long moment, before Kaze pointedly clears her throat, glaring at them both. Gawain nods, opens his mouth to say something, perhaps that they need to get back to the horses.

There’s the sound of steel on steel nearby, the clash of blades, then a hoarse cry. Joel…

Lancelot takes off, but he doesn’t get far. A flurry of black robes and steel launches itself at him, and Gawain watches it all in slow motion, time seeming to stop as the Trinity Guardsman leaps toward Lancelot. Lancelot feints at the last moment, dropping his shoulder and raising his sword. The two fall together in a heap, and Gawain runs toward them without even thinking, without checking his surroundings or assessing the danger.

Arms close around him from behind—black leather gloves with the imprint of the cross. Gawain snarls, struggling and fighting and cursing, but it’s all in vain. He watches as Lancelot wrestles out from underneath the weight of the other Guardsman, who’s obviously been slain, and then their eyes meet. 

Lancelot’s stoic mask shatters for the briefest of moments, and Gawain sees sheer terror.

“Gawain,” Kaze says, and he turns his head to find her just to his left, swords in hand. There are five Guardsmen around her that he can see and count—who knows how many are staying hidden in the trees.

Thom is nowhere in sight.

“We only want the Knight and the Monk,” the Guardsman restraining him says. “Give us them, and we’ll let the others go.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Gawain snaps, while Lancelot points out…

“You’ve already slain one of the others.”

Another Guardsman slinks from the trees to stand at Lancelot’s shoulder, mace in hand. Gawain thinks he may be sick.

The Guardsman behind Gawain ignores them, just repeats, “Come peacefully with us, and we’ll spare the others.”

“Lies,” Gawain says. “It is all you know how to do is lie.”

He looks first to Kaze and then to Lancelot, hoping they understand his intentions. _Don’t hold back, we either live here or we die here, there is no giving in…_

Gawain is expecting brutality as soon as Kaze and Lancelot move. There is a Guardsman at his back prepared to strike at a moment’s notice. There is little he can do to defend himself with the way he is restrained. But he is ready—ready to move, ready to fight, and ready for pain.

He is _not_ prepared for the blade to come down and slice open his throat.

It’s strange, he thinks, how he lingers for a few moments aware of it all. Strange that he’s aware he _is_ lingering, his hands grasping desperately at his neck, the blood flowing through his fingers and down the front of his coats and armor. He can hear fighting around him, clashing of blades and yelling and screaming, so much screaming…

The ground is hot when he falls to his knees. It’s hot like it’s burning, which he also thinks is strange, but then he is dying, so he probably doesn’t know.

His vision is blurry, narrowing around the edges, but he swears the woods are on fire around him. Ablaze like those deep blue eyes staring down at him in panic, flames dancing in their depths, and Gawain wants to tell him that it’s alright. Everything is going to be alright.

_You will be our greatest warrior._

But no words will come to him, and then there is nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffhanger! Already working on the next part, I'll get it up ASAP, promise! <3


	8. Part 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger resolved and the slowburn is finally getting somewhere! This is a bit shorter than previous parts, though it seemed like the best place to stop for now. And of course, I'm too verbose and running long--added another chapter, to the projected count, we'll see how it goes. ;)
> 
> Thanks so much for all your comments and kudos, you guys make me so happy! <3

The noise is what wakes him. Or perhaps it’s just that his hearing comes back to him first.

“We have to go!”

“No.”

“It’s not…”

“I’m not leaving him.”

“He’s gone, Lancelot. Do you think he would want us to stay here and die along with him?”

“You _don’t_ understand, woman, so stop speaking.”

“I understand plenty. You think I haven’t known pain? You’ve been the cause of much of my own…”

There is something touching his face, holding onto him. His cheeks feel hot, sticky where he’s being caressed. He feels like he’s suffocating, dragged down by heat and fever, sweat clinging to his skin…

It’s not so much a conscious effort to take a breath as it is a sudden violent reflex, a vicious spasm in his chest forcing his lungs to take in air. He chokes on blood and ash, his eyes flying open as he starts forcefully coughing it all up—he gets rolled from his back to his side, allowing him to cough and wretch onto the ground.

“ _Ancestors…_ ”

Gawain leverages himself up onto an elbow, still coughing, and turns toward the voice—finds Kaze standing a few steps away, staring at him as though she’s looking at a ghost. Gawain takes a deep breath of dirty air, hacks and spits, and twists to look over his shoulder.

Lancelot is crouched behind him, leaning over him, a hand on his side. The Ashman’s stoic mask has been shattered, his eyes wild and his nostrils flared—sweat is dripping down his brow, dirt and blood streaked across his face. He looks like he’s gone mad, driven to the absolute brink of his control, and Gawain knows what’s about to happen when Lancelot reaches out to touch his face. Knows it better than Lancelot, probably, judging from the way Lancelot sways, first toward Gawain, then back, then toward again, seemingly transfixed on his lips…

Then finally closes the distances and mashes their lips together.

It is… not sweet, not gentle, not lovely, not any of the things Gawain had entertained that it might be. They crash together so hard that it hurts, and there is still blood on Gawain’s lips, blood in his mouth, blood that gets smeared across Lancelot’s lips. He has to pull away too quickly, pressure in his chest bubbling up into another harsh cough. Though Lancelot doesn’t move away from him, only pushes closer, pressing his brow against Gawain’s, his nose against Gawain’s. 

Gawain’s fairly sure he coughs up even more blood on Lancelot’s face.

“I don’t understand,” Kaze says, walking over and crouching down next to Gawain. She reaches out, touches his throat, and shakes her head. “You were…”

Lancelot suddenly jerks away, seeming to come back to himself. He stares at Gawain in shock, as though he cannot believe that they just kissed.

“You knew, you fucking bastard, you _knew_!” Kaze abruptly shouts, shoving at Lancelot. Lancelot falls into Gawain, unsteady, and turns his stunned gaze on Kaze, but she just continues yelling. “It’s why you sat here for _hours_ while everything went up in flames around us. _Literally_. Not because you were wrecked with grief, but you _knew_!”

“What?” Gawain asks, looking around himself for the first time, taking stock of things. The woods around him are scorched, burnt to ash, _everything_ , the ground and the trees and— _Ancestors_ , the bodies of the Trinity guards are lying in incinerated mounds. 

_While everything went up in flames._

The grass under his body—or at least that had been under him while he’d been lying on his back—it is still green and healthy.

“I’d hoped,” Lancelot whispers, answering Kaze. He doesn’t meet her eyes, but contines, “I didn’t know, but I’d hoped.”

“You…” Kaze starts, infuriated, but Gawain interrupts…

“Stop, leave it.” He gets a look of sheer wrath from Kaze, but then her gaze drops to his throat, and her expression softens. He brings his hand up, touches the skin where her eyes have settled, and he can feel the scar underneath the dried tacky blood and dirt. It’s horizontal just across the apple of his throat, raised and still sore, and it’s obvious what’s happened to him. He remembers it happening, but he can’t right now, so he asks, “Did they set fire to the forest?! How are we…?”

“No, it was him,” Kaze says, motioning to Lancelot.

Gawain turns his head, staring in shock. Lancelot stares back, chagrined, and says, “I did nothing.”

“Idiot man, look around you,” Kaze says, gesturing extravagantly. “You called and the Hidden answered, here is the proof.”

Lancelot shakes his head, seeming ashamed. Gawain reaches out to him, touching the other fey’s shoulder, then cupping the back of his neck. Lancelot meets his gaze, eyes open and vulnerable, and Gawain smiles, thumb stroking across his cheek. “You’re alright, it’s alright.”

“Yes, we’re all alright, but we still need to go,” Kaze snaps. “There is probably no one left, but I do not want to take the chance.”

Gawain nods, pulling his feet underneath himself and trying to stand. He feels weak, a bit wobbly, but Lancelot keeps hold of him by the elbow, strong and supportive. Gawain ends up looking down into the field once he’s standing, finds the entire encampment reduced to ashes, a few of the tents still smoldering in flames. The horses are running loose, obviously spooked by whatever has occurred, but the animals are the only signs of life Gawain can see. 

He stands and stares, shocked.

“I apologize,” Lancelot murmurs to him, quiet, and Gawain quickly shakes his head, looking over to him.

“No, don’t. Don’t apologize,” Gawain hurries to assure him.

“This is all very touching, but we really need to move,” Kaze says. “Gawain, are you okay to walk back to the horses?”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go,” Gawain says, pulling away from Lancelot and steadying himself. One foot in front of the other, step step step. It’s the exact same feeling he’d had after waking up alone in that tent months ago—a bit shaky, mind hazy, everything jumbled together. All this time he’s tried to deny what happened, the fact that between Lancelot’s blade and the torture he’d obviously… passed onto the Hidden. Or perhaps never really made it there—perhaps his soul had simply lingered somewhere in between, hovering outside of his body. 

“Are you alright?” Lancelot asks from behind Gawain, pulling him abruptly from his thoughts. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been walking, he’s just been blindly following after Kaze.

He means to answer, _I’m fine_. But he’s trapped in his head, too much—death and kisses and fire—and he ends up saying, “I was dead.”

There’s a long, heavy silence from the other two. Eventually, Kaze asks, “What do you remember?”

 _My throat being slit_ , Gawain thinks very clearly. He replies, “Being attacked.”

“The life had left your eyes,” Lancelot says very, very quietly.

Gawain breathes in, breathes out, trying to calm his nerves.

“We’re near the horses,” Lancelot speaks up suddenly. He rests a hand on Gawain’s shoulder, points to their right. “That way. I can smell Goliath.”

“If you can smell him, perhaps you should wash him,” Kaze says, though her tone is flat, lacking her usual spirit.

Lancelot doesn’t bother replying.

~*~

It’s already growing dark by the time they make it to the horses. It makes Gawain wonder how long he’d lain on the ground… _dead_. The sun was still high in the sky when they’d found the encampment, which means several hours have passed at the very least. 

It hasn’t taken them hours to make it back to the horses. It hasn’t even taken _one_ hour.

They have two extra horses now, one raider dead and the other raider disappeared, so Lancelot ties one horse to the back of his saddle and Gawain does the same with the other. They set off and ride in silence.

Lancelot hears running water eventually, directs them away from the road and into the woods. It a short ride to a lake, a waterfall visible in the distance feeding fresh water down into the pool. They need to rest for a bit before they can continue to ride home—sleep and eat and clean up.

Gawain can’t walk back into camp like this, not with blood streaked everywhere. He’s already trying to figure out what he’s going to tell the rest, how he’s going to explain away the huge scar across the middle of his throat. He may have to admit the truth.

He says as much to Kaze while he’s alone with her making camp. Lancelot takes it upon himself to see to the horses, unsaddling them and taking them one by one down to the water. So while Gawain helps Kaze make a campfire, he whispers to her, “I don’t know what we’re going to tell the others.”

“Nothing,” Kaze says immediately, definitively. “Nothing happened, do you understand?”

“And how is that going to work?” Gawain asks, dropping his firewood on the pile and then tilting his head back. All the blood on his skin is starting to flake off, the scar visible now, and he rubs it at it, keeping his eyes locked on Kaze’s. Kaze stares for a moment before looking away.

“We’ll… make a plan,” she decides. “But we say nothing of him.”

She gestures out to the lake, to where Lancelot is standing at the water’s edge, holding Goliath’s lead while the horse drinks and walks about in the shallows. Gawain stares at him, at how he has his cloak held up out of the wet and wrapped tightly around himself, and at how the moonlight is playing off the water.

They’d kissed. When Gawain had woken up, Lance had touched his face and kissed him. _Ancestors_ , but Gawain just wants to lie down next to him and hold him tonight. Assure himself that they’re alright.

“They can’t know about him,” Kaze says, pulling Gawain from his thoughts. “Do you know what will happen if they know he burned an entire encampment to the ground? There are so many who are still afraid of him, and two of the elders still occasionally call for his execution. If they know what he is capable of…”

“They will have to kill me before they take him,” Gawain interrupts, fierce. “And apparently they will have a difficult time keeping me down.”

“Gawain, I know,” Kaze says, her tone softening. “But you are only one man, and fear and anger can start wildfires—excuse my choice of words.”

Gawain chuckles, shaking his head. “I look at him now and only see another feyman. He is not frightening.”

“You did not witness him burn that camp of Paladins alive,” Kaze says. “It was amazing, but it was frightening.”

Gawain looks at her. “And you know that it was him? Definitely?”

“Yes,” Kaze answers, but doesn’t elaborate. She glances back to the lake, where Lancelot has finished with Goliath and is taking Joel’s grey mare to the water. “Go speak to him. Please,” she says. “When you, gods, _lay dead_ … I thought he would simply lie down next to you and melt into the earth. I fear he would still be there with your body if things were different.”

Gawain swallows, nods. “I’ll go speak to him,” he decides, and Kaze dips her head in silent recognition.

He grabs his horse before he goes, an excuse to wander down by the lake besides the obvious, and walks down to stand beside Lancelot. He waits in silence for a few moments, just watching as the big bay takes a step into the water and noses about. Lancelot glances over at him, a quick up and down, before he looks back out over the lake. The tension in the air is palpable, and Gawain searches desperately for a way to break it. 

“I should really name him, shouldn’t I?” Gawain muses. “The horse, that is. I can’t keep calling him ‘My Stolen Bay’.”

That makes Lancelot grin, looking over. “You could choose a name with thievery connotations. Like, well… Thief.”

Gawain chuckles. “Perhaps Swindler. Or Looter.”

“How about Bandit?” Lancelot asks, and Gawain smiles.

“Oh, I like that,” Gawain says. He looks to the bay, asks, “What do you think of that, horse? Are you a Bandit?”

The bay—or Bandit now, Gawain supposes—he doesn’t look up, just keeps playing in the water. Gawain chuckles, while Lancelot unnecessarily defends the horse, “He’s tired.”

“I think we are all tired,” Gawain says. He meets Lancelot’s gaze when Lancelot looks over, can see how glassy the other fey’s eyes are, the tears hanging in the Ashman’s eyes shining in the moonlight. Gawain takes a breath, trying to calm himself, then says, “I’m alright, Lancelot. We’re all three alright—me, you, and Kaze—everything is alright.”

Lancelot sighs, the exhale unsteady, and looks back to the grey horse at the end of his lead. “I know,” he answers eventually. Then, after a pause, “But I did _not_ know when you fell.”

“You’ve seen me heal,” Gawain points out.

“I’ve seen your skin knit together and your bruises disappear overnight. I’ve never seen you draw your last breath—then breathe again,” Lancelot answers without missing a beat.

“We assumed I had died after you’d…”

“Assumed,” Lancelot interrupts, voice heavy as stone. “I’d assumed you’d died by my blade, but I did not know. You did not know either. And the longer you lay on the ground lifeless, the surer I became that we’d assumed wrong.”

Gawain wishes he had a sensible reply to that, but he finds himself lacking.

“You’re still covered in blood,” Lancelot speaks up after a long silence. He motions to the water, says, “You should clean yourself before you lie down to sleep.”

Gawain nods in agreement, shuffling forward two steps so that he can lean forward and touch the water. He pulls his gloves off, reaches down and wets his hands, then hisses. It is so cold it stings. In fact, he’s surprised the horses want anything to do with it. Though he supposes it’s water, and they’re thirsty.

Gawain does the best he can to get the blood off of himself, cups his hands in the water and splashes his face, scrubs at his neck with his fingernails, even wets his hair and scratches at his scalp. Even in the dark, he can see the water turning pink when he dips his hands into it. 

Of course, there’s nothing he can really do about the blood on his armor and coats, not without getting wet and freezing cold.

He’s shivering when he straightens up, and he clenches his jaw, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. With nothing to dry off on, he begins wiping his hands on his britches, but then Lancelot murmurs, “Come here.”

Gawain looks up to find Lancelot watching him, the edge of his cloak held out. So Gawain goes, lets Lancelot dry his hands with the soft warm fur, and then Lancelot reaches up to dry his face, wiping gentle across his cheeks and forehead. Their eyes meet, and the tension hangs heavy in the air. Gawain thinks about pointing it out, or perhaps bringing up their kiss from before, but his hand seems to reach out of its own accord, fingers touching the Ashman’s cheek.

And gods, but he’s been wanting to touch Lancelot’s face again for so very long. He can still remember how it had felt in his hands all those months ago, those times he’d been forced to touch the Ashman’s face and mouth to care for him, to keep him alive. This is different though—of course, Lancelot is healthy, his face unbruised, cheeks pink from the cold and not pale with sick. And his eyes are clear when they meet Gawain’s, watery and filled with emotion, not clouded with confusion and fever.

But more to the point, Gawain touches him now with something alarmingly like love clenching up in his chest, and the words that spill past his lips are: “May I kiss you again?”

Lancelot squeezes his eyes shut, then murmurs, “I—I am sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Gawain asks, frowning. He strokes his thumb across Lancelot’s cheekbone, across the ashlines streaked there, and Lancelot shivers.

“Because I never should have…” Lancelot trails off, takes a deep breath, then finishes. “I was weak with relief when you woke, and I lost myself for a moment. I never should have allowed myself something so…”

“If you are about to begin parroting Church words at me—at now, of all times—I will shove you headfirst into that freezing water,” Gawain interrupts, more admonishing that he really means, but then his nerves are a bit frayed. 

It blessedly makes Lancelot go quiet, and he meets Gawain’s eye. Eventually, he murmurs, “I thought at first you had bewitched me somehow.”

Gawain chuckles, shakes his head. “I have no such powers.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Lancelot points out with a tiny grin, and well, Gawain has to give him that.

“Fair.”

“Though… I eventually realized that you had no control over me. You only— _cared_ —the way others in my life professed to but…” He speaks haltingly, as though the words are hard to find, difficult to say aloud. Gawain stays silent, a gut feeling he needs to let Lancelot get this out, say his piece without interruption. Lancelot continues, “The others called it love, but it was not. It was… a means of influence and command. But you have shown me respect and… friendship, and it has—you have lit a fire inside me. And it amazes me and… and terrifies me all at once, and I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Gawain assures him. “Just be here with me. And perhaps, if it pleases you, let me kiss you again?”

Lancelot is quiet for a very, very long moment. Long enough that Gawain is sure he will pull away, stop this from going further. But then the Ashman nods once very slightly, then again more definitively. Gawain smiles, the happiness bubbling up from in his chest, and he cups Lancelot by the back of the neck, palm against the soft fabric of his cloak, and draws him in. 

_This_ time, the kiss is sweet and gentle and lovely, _all_ of the those things Gawain had entertained that it might be. It’s clumsy too, Lancelot obviously without a clue—something Gawain would have been nonplussed about with any other partner, but with Lancelot it’s beyond endearing, so incredibly sweet. Gawain just guides him through it all, moving a hand to his jaw to gently tilt his head, keeping it all fairly chaste, just a caress of lips, and then another, and then another…

Gawain smiles when they part, pulls back and opens his eyes to meet Lancelot’s gaze. One single tear has escaped and is trailing down the same track as his ashmarks, and so Gawain strokes it away with his thumb. Then the words come out of him unbidden—because the other fey has such a strength of spirit and a courage in his heart , yet he is also filled with a gentleness and tenderness that shouldn’t be possible considering everything he has been through…

“You are amazing,” Gawain murmurs.

Lancelot takes a breath, deep and unsteady, obviously fighting back tears, before he leans forward and desperately captures Gawain’s lips again.

Gawain kisses him back with everything he has.

~*~

“Do you know the story of creation?” Kaze asks, later.

She’s propped up against the trunk of a tree, watching him and Lancelot. Gawain’s sitting up as well, nerves too frayed to lie down, while Lancelot is curled up against his side. Lancelot apparently doesn’t care if others see them sleeping close—their first night on the road, Lancelot threw his bedroll down by Gawain’s and laid down like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it was the only thing that made sense. Gawain wasn’t about to dissuade him, it would have only led to an upset Ashman and several nights of horrible sleep. Everyone already thought they were fucking anyway, so Gawain didn’t see the harm in it.

And now, well, they aren’t fucking—not yet, at least—but the way Lancelot is leaned against him, his head resting on his shoulder and warm breath puffing against the side of his neck… It’s intimate in a way that Gawain just wants to soak in.

Lancelot answers Kaze without picking his head up. “God created the earth and everything in it.”

Kaze laughs at him, and he does pick his head up then, assumedly glaring at her. She eventually says, “Not your man-bloods’ story. The fey’s story.”

“I think different Feyfolk have different stories,” Gawain points out.

“True,” Kaze says.

“I only know the story the Church taught,” Lancelot says.

“Many Feyfolk from these shores hold the belief of the four creators,” Gawain explains. “The Skyfolk, the Vinefolk, the Merfolk, and the Ashfolk. The Skyfolk hung the clouds, the Vinefolk cultivated the greens, the Merfolk filled the oceans, and the Ashfolk crafted fire.”

Lancelot turns his head, looking at Gawain. “That is absurd,” he comments.

“More absurd than your one god creating everything?” Kaze counters, to which Lancelot has no answer. “Anyway,” she continues, “I watched you, an Ashfolk man, ‘craft fire’ just hours ago. So tell me again how it is absurd.”

Lancelot is quiet for a long moment, and Gawain hugs him closer, comforting. “I did not mean to do so,” Lancelot says eventually. “It just… came from me.”

It’s the first time he’s admitted to it, to what’s happened. The destruction he’s apparently capable of. Gawain twists his head to look at him, and Lancelot meets his gaze. The Ashman has his defenses up, yet he still looks tired and stressed and scared. “It’s alright,” Gawain tells him.

“Our story is similar,” Kaze says after a beat. “But it’s not that _they_ created, it’s that they _were_ created. That you Skyfolk were made from the clouds, and that the Ashfolk were born of the fire. It’s why they can’t be burnt by fire.”

“That’s a myth,” Gawain says, at the same time Lancelot says…

“I’ve been burnt by fire.”

“Oh,” Kaze says, frowning. “You were not burnt by the fire in the forest. But then I suppose, neither were we.”

“He spared the horses, too,” Gawain points out, chuckling. Then, grinning at Lancelot, “Sometimes, I think you like horses more than people.”

“Sometimes I do,” Lancelot replies, a crooked smile on his face. 

Silence settles, only broken by the rush of the waterfall in the background and the soft whicker of a horse. Gawain sighs, closing his eyes, and holds Lancelot close. Eventually, Kaze murmurs, “I don’t know why you feel the need to lie about you relationship. Your friends only care for your happiness.”

“We…” Gawain begins, before trailing off. Because what is he to say? We only kissed for the first time today, and spoke only briefly about our feelings? It’s laughably unbelievable, and none of her business anyway. So he just says, “I know.”

Kaze sighs, apparently wishing he’d given her more, before saying, “You make a handsome couple.”

Gawain smiles and says, “Thank you,” while Lancelot buries his face in the crook of Gawain’s neck.

They only manage a few hours of sleep that night, but Gawain stays comfortable and warm with Lancelot snuggled up close against his side. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are loved. <3


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